


Crossfire

by defessuspuer



Category: The Walking Dead (TV), Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F, Gen, Inspired by The Walking Dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-11-09 15:16:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11107230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defessuspuer/pseuds/defessuspuer
Summary: "Tobin Heath: couch potato extraordinaire, lazy artist, and frequent drunkard survives the End of Days by the skin of her teeth." Tobin was passed out drunk while the world came to an end. Her best friend, Kling, leaves a note telling her of the devastation and to leave Portland. A compelling and heartwarming story detailing a jaded cynic's travels across the desolate remains of the post-apocalyptic country and all the loving friendships she makes on her journey. And also the super hot babe she picks up along the way.Preath meets The Walking Dead!





	1. Wake Up

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first time writing fanfic, and really my first time writing creatively in a damn long time. Go easy on me. I'm super into The Walking Dead tv series, and I've wanted to write a WoSo fic, so I combined my two interests and here we are.  
> The first two chapters are a lot of description, especially since Tobin is by herself. I have to set the scene. Don't worry, she'll meet Christen soon, bear with me. And it won't get "smutty" for a good while - there's walkers to fight off. I'm working on chapters 2 and 3 now (had to rework some things - ch. 3 Christen comes in).  
> Comments are welcome! I hope whoever reads this enjoys it and will continue reading as I update! Also my tumblr url is defessus-puer.

 

_But you’ll feel better when you wake up_  
_Swear to god I’ll make up_  
_Everything and more when I get back someday._

 

This isn’t the first time she’s waking up face down on the cold hardwood floor of her apartment, the right side of her face coated in drool, but it may very well be the last time. At least for a while.

  
Tobin slowly opens her eyes and lifts her head. The splitting migraine of a hangover immediately forces her warm face back down onto the cool surface of the floor. She winces, her entire body feeling like it’s on fire. Tobin’s eyes find the empty bottle of Yukon Jack laying on its side a couple feet from where she lay. She doesn’t remember drinking the whole thing, but with the way she feels right now, there’s no doubt that she did. She contemplates laying there for a few more minutes, not sure how long she’s been out. Tobin decidedly takes a deep breath, brings her arms to her chest, and hoists herself up in a sitting position. She holds her face in her hands, her head feeling like it weighs a ton, pain pulsating behind her eyes. She’s breathing heavily, her parched throat burning with every intake of air. She runs her fingers through her hair, separating the strands clumped together with dried saliva.

  
_Coffee_ , Tobin thinks, leaning back against her plush leather couch. She’s been through this so many times before, it’s almost routine now: Drink until you feel numb; pass out for 12 hours; wake up in a cold sweat on the floor, writhing in pain; muster up the Herculean strength needed to get up off the floor; crawl to the kitchen to make nature’s best cure for a hangover. This is what her life is now, but Tobin made it that way; it’s the cross she bears. Elbows placed on the cushions of the couch, Tobin pushes herself up into a standing position. Her vision is a little blurry, but from what she can see, at least her apartment isn’t completely trashed. The coffee table in front of her is littered with art supplies - paint tubes, brushes, sketchbooks, charcoal, an ink vial, a paint palette, a medium canvas. The small black leather journal she writes in sits on top of the mess, her Canon resting on the cover. It’s a wonder how she’s managed to not destroy her camera in her drunken stupor. Tobin strains her eyes looking at the TV which she left on all night, trying to decipher what program is on.

  
Nothing. The screen is black.

  
Tobin furrows her brows, perplexed. _Did I forget to pay the cable bill?_ Shaking her head, she slowly moves her stiff legs from the living room to the adjoining kitchen. She stops in front of the Keurig on the counter next to the sink. Tobin grabs a K-cup out of the cabinet, nestles it into the slot of the coffeemaker, and presses the power button. It doesn’t light up. Forehead wrinkled, she checks the water reservoir to make sure it’s full - it is. She cranes her neck behind the Keurig to see it plugged into the wall. She jams her finger into the power button several more times.

  
“What the fuck?” Tobin yells at the coffee maker. Disgruntled, she makes her way over to the refrigerator. She notices that the refrigerator light is off and there’s no cold air inside. She picks up a half gallon of milk and shakes it. Thick white clumps are jostled around inside the plastic. Tobin frowns and puts it back on the door shelf. What little food she had in the fridge is no longer edible - a bag of salad mix full of wilted brown leaves and condensation; a block of margarine turned liquid, leaking onto the shelves; turkey lunch meat turned gray inside the package. The pitcher of iced coffee she keeps in the fridge is now lukewarm.

  
“What the fuck!?” Tobin shouts out, slamming the refrigerator door shut and turning around to face the living room. “Did I forget to pay every god damn bill? Or maybe…” Her face lights up, understanding overcoming confusion. “There must be a power outage! Maybe Kling’s power is out, too.” Tobin pats the right pocket of her black jeans, but doesn’t feel the familiar mold of her cell phone. She searches the kitchen island, scattering papers and pens and pencils in the process. Tobin moves back into the living room more quickly now despite the still present pounding in her skull. On the TV stand at the base of the TV sits her iPhone. She grabs it and presses the middle button with her thumb. It lights up, her lock screen image of the prize-winning photograph that made her famous staring back at her until the screen goes black. Tobin pushes her thumb into the button again, the touch ID registering her print and unlocking her screen.

  
The first thing Tobin notices is that her battery is at 18%. Typical - she never turns the phone off. The second thing she notices is that she has no messages. Not typical, very odd actually - Tobin isn’t Miss Popularity or anything, but she always has at least Kling messaging her about anything and everything. The green messages icon on the screen has no red “1” hovering on the top right corner, though. _Whatever_ , Tobin thinks. She clicks on her contacts icon and scrolls to find Kling’s name. She presses the phone symbol, chooses “voice call,” and holds the phone up to her ear. The phone beeps three times before ending the call. Tobin looks at the upper left corner of the screen. No service. She sighs, double-clicking the home button and swiping the call screen up. She makes her way back to the kitchen and pulls the iPhone charger out of the wall next to the microwave. She detaches the block piece from the USB cable. She turns around to the island, finding her orange backpack sitting on one of the chairs. Tobin sifts through it, digging through empty water bottles, loose papers, and pens before finding what she’s looking for: her portable charger. Hoping that the device still has some juice in it, she plugs the USB end of the cord into the charger and the other end into her phone. The screen lights up and buzzes twice, the green battery symbol reading “16% charged.” Tobin drops the block piece into her bag and sits the charging phone onto the island counter.

  
“Guess I’ll just have to go pay Kling a visit,” Tobin sighs. “She’s probably home, if the entirety of Portland is experiencing an outage, evidently. Probably pissed she can’t edit her videos.” Tobin smiles, thinking of Kling sitting on the couch, staring at her dead laptop, arms crossed and lips sticking out in a pout. Not bothering to put on socks or shoes, considering Kling only lives one floor down from Tobin, she moves to the front door. She grips the knob and turns it, slowly pulling the door toward her. She peeks her head out of the door frame and peers into the hallway. A man stands in front of door 511 three doors down from Tobin, his back facing her. Relieved to see another person, she calls out to him.

  
“Hey, dude! Is your power out too, man? Do you know what’s going on?”

  
The man cocks his head to the side. Tobin furrows her brows, her heart rate increasing. A foreign feeling spreads through her chest.

  
The man turns around to face Tobin. Her eyes widen and her brows furrow deeper, heart skipping a beat, breath caught in her throat. The man’s t-shirt is tattered and stained with dirt and blood. Small holes litter the front of his shirt, blood oozing from every hole in his chest. Tobin’s eyes move up to take in his face. His eyes are glazed over, the iris and pupils buried under a gray fog. His eyelids are rimmed bright red, deep purple and blue sockets sunken down into his skull. His skin is clay colored, layers of grime caked all over. Patches of skin on his cheeks are missing, looking as though someone ripped the skin deep, leaving only connective tissue visible. The man’s bottom lip is split open, his mouth drooping, showing his rotted bottom teeth. Thick, deep red blood seeps from his mouth, coating his chin and throat. His eyes widen as he sees Tobin standing in her door frame.

  
“Dude, what the fuck!” Tobin chokes out, not quite sure what she’s looking at. A stunt double from a zombie movie? A guy trying to scare people? Tobin’s breathing is rapid, her heart hammering hard against her chest. Before she has time to consider what this man is doing standing there looking like that, he opens his mouth wide, baring his yellow and black stained teeth. A primitive, guttural wail rips out of his throat. Time slows, the air feels aqueous. Tobin is frozen in place as the man barrels toward her, arms outstretched, hands swiping the air, jaw snapping at her. She can’t hear him, she can’t hear anything but the pounding of her heart pulsing through her ears.

  
The stench of decaying flesh brings Tobin back to awareness. She stumbles back through the doorway, pushing against the door. The throaty screeches and growls coming from the man follow her as he pushes his way into her apartment. His torso is trapped between the closing door and the door frame, arm swinging and fingers grasping. Tobin avoids his reaching arm, pushing with all her strength on the door. Tobin scans the area around her for something to beat the man. Her back against the door, she knocks the lampshade off the lamp on the table next to the door. She grips the neck of the lamp and swings it into the man’s head repeatedly. The skin splits open, his skull visible and cracking. His growls continue but he retreats all but his arm out of the doorway. Arm bent toward Tobin, he grabs her shirt. Panic streams icy through her veins and Tobin releases a shriek of her own before slamming her entire body against the door. Bones crunch in the outstretched arm, and it goes limp. Tobin continues hurling her body against the door until it finally closes. She hears a thump on the floor next to her. Back against the door, breathing heavily, Tobin’s eyes follow the sound. The man’s arm lay there, gray and limp, fingers locked at the joints in a grip.

 

She pushes the button lock on the knob and slides the chain lock in place.

  
Tobin slides her back down the door and sits, head resting back, eyes closed, trying to steady her labored breathing. She doesn’t hear the growling anymore.

  
“What the fuck,” she breathes out. “This isn’t real. This can’t be real.”

  
She sits there staring ahead, reflecting on what just happened.

  
_So let me get this straight. Some dude just tried to attack me. His dismembered arm is in my apartment. What the fuck is going on? What the--_

  
“Kling!” Panic-stricken, Tobin shoots up off the floor and grabs the doorknob.

  
_Wait_. She looks into the peephole and sees nothing straight ahead in the hallway. Pressing her ear to the door, she listens intently for even the softest breath on the other side.

  
Nothing.

  
_You gotta go out there. You gotta go make sure Kling is okay. It’s just downstairs, you can do this._

  
Tobin sprints into the kitchen and slides into the utensil drawer. She pulls it open, scanning the silverware for the sharpest knife. She settles on the butcher knife that came with the fancy set her mom had bought her when she bought the apartment. She grips the handle, blade facing away, holding the knife to her chest. Back at the door, Tobin inhales deeply, trying to untangle the knot in her stomach. With her free hand, she slowly turns the doorknob and pulls the door toward her as quietly as she can. She leaves it ajar, backing away, the arm gripping the knife raised next to her face. She waits.

  
Nothing.

  
She inches back to the door, eyes never leaving the exposed stretch of hallway. Her foot bumps into the severed arm and she jumps, every hair on her body raised, goosebumps sprouting on her skin.

  
“Ffffffffffucking!” Tobin hisses, kicking the arm out into the hallway. It slams against door 516 and falls on the welcome mat with a thud. Tobin hovers nearby, waiting for the man to return. Beads of sweat trickle down her face. Her heart rages against her ribcage.

  
The man doesn’t appear.

  
Exhaling shakily, Tobin opens her apartment door fully and sticks her head out of the doorway, staring down the right side of the hall where the man had been. There is nothing to see but the stretch of hallway. The emerald green carpet is stained with dark splashes the whole way down from her door to door 500. The man must have been bleeding as he fled from Tobin’s retaliation. Standing in her doorway, she swallows and steps out, closing the door behind her. She bolts to the left and swings open the door to the stairwell. She slams it shut behind her, falling back against it, catching her breath.

  
_Down two flights of stairs, two sets of 12 steps. Out another door. Down the hall. 425. You can do this._

  
And she does. She barrels down the stairs and out the next door, never looking behind her, eyes only focused forward. She dashes down the right hallway and slides into door 425. Tobin drops the knife and grabs the doorknob, twisting and jerking it, but it won’t budge. She pounds her fists against the wood.

  
“Kling! Kling, open the fucking door! Open the fucking door!” Her fists continue flying into the wood.

  
“Meghan! Meghan Kling, open the mother fucking door! Something is wrong, you hear me? Meghan!” Nothing. Tobin sinks to the floor, tears stinging in the back of her eyes. She doesn’t want to consider the worst possible scenario, that Kling is dead behind that door, but with no answer to her desperate shouting, she can’t keep the thoughts from her mind. With no cell service, no power, no wifi, there’s no way Tobin can get ahold of Kling.

  
_Maybe she’s not in there?_ Tobin’s chest feels like ice as she considers everything that’s happened thus far.

  
_A man attacked me on the fifth floor. I’ve been pounding on Kling’s door and screaming for her. I have not seen another human being since that man. No one so much as cracked their door open to see what the bother is. Where the fuck are my neighbors? Where the fuck is everyone?_

  
“I’m being Punk’d. There’s no other explanation. Where is MTV? Come on out, Kling! You did it, you scared the shit out of me! I pissed myself! Time to call it a day!” Tobin laughs, albeit uneasily. She turns her head, glancing down both ends of the hall. No MTV camera crew exposes themselves. No sound is coming from Kling’s apartment. She’s alone.

  
Tobin resigns herself back to her apartment. She exits the stairwell door onto her floor and sulks back to her apartment, defeated. She stands in front of her door, about to enter, when she notices a folded white piece of paper laying on top of the welcome mat. There’s a clear piece of tape attached to the top, above her name. It must have been taped to her door but she didn’t notice it during the brawl with the insane man or her venture to Kling’s apartment. She bends down and picks up the paper, unfolding it to find a long message in familiar scrawl.

 

> Friday, 5/6/16 7:00pm
> 
>   
>  Tobin,
> 
>   
>  Of course you were drinking again I tried to wake you you left your door unlocked but you wouldn’t wake up. I hope you’re not dead from alcohol poisoning and see this. Tobin, get the fuck out of Portland. Idk what happened there were bombs and guns going off the army was here people were dying and coming back to life. They were killing people, everyone dead or not. Everything was on fire in the city people were running and screaming and crying, dying everyone was dying blood everywhere all over the streets they were running people over with tanks just a massacre. People were coming back to life, they were dead but not dead they were biting people and eating them. Your gonna think this is a fucking joke but I cant explain better than that Tobin you have to go, pack some shit in a bag and run. If you see them, run if you can fight them off do it but dont get bit or scrached bring a knife with you or something sharp to stab them if you have a gun thats the best. Head for the east coast. I need to find my family in Pittsburgh then im heading to DC thats what the army guys were saying theres refuge in DC its safe there. Its not just portland dude its the whole states it might be the whole world idk whats going on i dont think the army did either. Please tobin just listen to me and leave as soon as you find this note bring water and food and run.
> 
>   
>  I hope i see you again tobin i love you please be safe please be careful i know you’ll be fine. Assholes like you always make it through shit like this. the world needs tobin heath.
> 
>  
> 
> -Kling
> 
>  

Tobin’s lips curl upward at the edges, teeth biting the plump bottom lip. She snorts once, twice, then her abdomen erupts with gut-busting laughter, eyes closed tightly, tears streaming down her cheeks. She laughs until her lungs cry for air. She wipes the tears from her eyes, shaking her head.

  
“Whoo, I needed that!” she exhales. “I’ll admit, you had me goin’ there for a minute. Come on out, Kling! What, am I really supposed to believe that the fucking world ended while I was passed out drunk? Like I wouldn’t hear the fucking army rolling into Portland with bombs and machine guns going off? Y’all are wild, really.” Tobin continues laughing, tucking the note away in her left pocket.

  
“I’d only been out for, what? A day? Probably not even 12 hours. It’s Saturday afternoon.” She reaches for her phone in her right pocket, patting the area before realizing it’s in the apartment, charging. She opens the door and steps inside, shouting behind her, “It’s cool, Kling. I would be upset too if my elaborate prank on you was figured out! When you wipe the egg off your face, come on over.” She closes the door behind her, shaking her head and smiling. Of course this was all just one big joke. There’s no way Tobin was passed out for more than 12 hours. Even so, she would’ve been woken up by a zombie apocalypse.

  
_What time is it, anyway?_ Rolling her eyes, Tobin walks over to the kitchen island and picks up her phone, pressing her thumb to the home button. The screen lights up: 1:55, Sunday, May 8.

  
_What?_ Tobin presses the button again, the screen relaying the same message. It’s Sunday May 8th, 1:56pm. Her eyes widen and panic sweeps through her chest. _No fucking way. No, this isn’t true. No way I slept for two days straight. What the fuck is happening?_

  
“You changed the date and time on my phone?” she shouts at her apartment door. She doesn’t feel right; something is off. There’s no way Kling would think to do something like that, even if she _was_ planning the world’s sickest joke. The room seems to be spinning. Tobin sets her phone back on the countertop. _It’s Sunday, it’s Sunday… I passed out on Friday… No way._ She walks over to the floor-to-ceiling window comprising one of the walls of her living room. The curtains are drawn, preventing any sign of the outside world from entering. When she’s been drinking, the last thing Tobin wants is multiple rays of sunlight boring into her eyes as she sleeps off her stupor on the floor. Sometimes she just needs to block everything out for a while. This is not one of those times.

  
Taking in a deep breath, Tobin grabs each curtain, grasping tightly. She closes her eyes, slightly afraid of what she’s going to find on the other side of that glass. _Just rip the bandage off._

  
Tobin pulls open the curtains as far as her wingspan. Sunshine spills into the room and onto her face, warmth caressing her skin. She smiles, eyes still closed.

  
_I knew it. Everything is fine. I guess I passed out for a few days, but I’m okay now._

  
She opens her eyes, squinting to see outside past the sun’s piercing rays.

 

She immediately wishes she had kept them closed.

 

Her apartment building is just outside downtown Portland. As far as she can see, everything is still intact. The other buildings look unharmed. There’s no devastation in the form of uncontrollable fires or houses and buildings blown to smithereens. There are a few cars in the parking lots. The sidewalks haven’t caved in. Trees are still standing, the grass is a vibrant green. It’s a beautiful spring day - aside from the fact that there is a massive herd of undead humans hobbling around. They all look like the man who had attacked her what seems like hours ago. They’re filthy, clothes torn, covered in blood and dirt. Some of them have limbs missing. One woman is limping, her abdomen slashed so deeply that her innards are hanging out, wobbling as she moves. A man has half of his face missing, nothing left but an empty eye socket and muscle tissue that resembles raw hamburger. There’s a child among them, blood dripping down his mouth as he snaps his teeth, twitching.

  
Forehead pressed to the glass, Tobin stares down at them. There has to be a hundred of them, wandering aimlessly, walking in circles. Some of them are crawling all over the abandoned cars. Others are scratching and clawing at the walls of the building. The rest just walk, bumping into one another, no destination in mind. They look as though they’ve lost their minds.

  
The group is gathered in the courtyard between Tobin’s building and the other apartments. Few of them stray far from the herd. Tobin turns her attention toward the streets and the houses lining them. A couple of the living dead are following the street into the city. Bodies litter the streets, some of them charred black, others with limbs and slabs of flesh missing. Blood stains the asphalt. She can’t see much from the fifth floor up of her building, can’t make out the tiny details of the desecration of the bodies. It’s probably better that she can’t, as her stomach is already churning at the sight before her. _This must be what hell looks like._

  
“Shit, Kling,” Tobin says softly, holding her hand over her pocket where the note is tucked away. She pulls it out and reads it again, the realization of the situation hitting her like bricks. She feels immense guilt for having been blacked out when all of this occurred. She feels terrible for having put Kling in the difficult situation of attempting to wake her best friend, only to be forced to leave her behind. And ultimately, as Tobin peers back out through the glass, blinded by the sun but not enough to overlook the walking dead, she feels absolutely. Fucking. Terrified. She’s alone. There’s nobody left in her apartment building, as far as she can tell. There’s no signs of life through the windows of the other buildings. The only company Tobin currently has is in the form of decaying, soulless human bodies roaming through the streets. _“People were coming back to life. They were dead, but not dead. They were biting people and eating them.”_ Tobin knows she is not in good company. They’re dangerous. The man that attacked her didn’t do so out of fear - he wanted to consume her flesh. Tobin shudders at the thought. _What’s wrong with them? Why are they like this?_

  
“I gotta get out of here.” Tobin tucks the note back into her pocket. She makes her way to her bedroom, but stops. _Where do I go?_ Kling said to go to D.C., that there’s refuge there from this disaster. She guesses that D.C. is her best bet: Travel to the east coast, or sit in her apartment, run out of food, and rot. She grabs her orange backpack from the island chair and continues to her bedroom. She dumps the contents of the backpack onto the bed. She pushes aside the crumpled papers and picks up the block piece to her charger and a few pens, tossing them back into the bag. _I can’t bring a lot with me or it’ll slow me down._ She glances around her room, eyes landing on the dresser. She opens each drawer hurriedly, scanning the inside contents before slamming each one shut. _Yeah, I’m gonna bring socks and underwear with me to traverse the desolate remains of the country._ She rolls her eyes and approaches the mirror hanging on her closet door. She’s clad in tight black jeans and a cotton gray v-neck tshirt. Tobin shrugs her shoulders and opens the closet door, pulling out her favorite black hoodie. She shoves it in the bag and goes back to the dresser and takes out a pair of wool socks. She slips them on her feet and slides into her black Doc Martens.

  
As she’s about to head back into the living room, light reflects off of something on the dresser, catching her eye. Approaching the dresser, she frowns at the item, picking it up between her thumb and index fingers. It’s a gold cross on a gold chain, a gift from someone who doesn’t matter anymore. Someone who probably didn’t even survive whatever happened to the world. She unclasps the chain and attaches it around her neck, the cross resting comfortably on her chest. Tobin sighs heavily and grabs her backpack, exiting the bedroom.

  
She stuffs some water bottles from a pack on the countertop into the bag, as well as some packs of beef jerky and dried fruit. She’s never been good at keeping substantial food in the apartment, nor keeping herself properly nourished. A diet of coffee and alcohol, however, isn’t going to keep her alive in these dire circumstances. _I’m a stubborn and jaded sonofabitch, but I’m not entirely stupid_ , Tobin thinks as she eyes a bottle of Jack Daniels on the counter and decides against stuffing it into the bag. Zipping the backpack closed, she slings it over her shoulder and surveys the kitchen and living room one last time. She settles once more on the coffee table where her camera and journal sit together. Crossing over into the living room, she reopens the backpack and gingerly places the items inside. The backpack is heavy, but she’ll manage. These things are too important to leave behind. She tucks her keys and wallet into one pocket and her phone, albeit useless, into the other with Kling’s note. Gripping the butcher knife in one hand, she stands at the door, eyes trained on the wood, not wanting to look behind her at everything she’s leaving. A knot has formed in her stomach and tears sting the backs of her eyes. She doesn’t want to do this, she doesn’t know where she’s going, and she doesn’t want to do it alone. _You have no choice. You stay here and you die. Go find Kling. Go find someone, anyone._

  
Swallowing her fears, she leaves behind all that she’s ever known for a future full of uncertainty and isolation. And the flesh-eating walking dead.


	2. Smooth Seas Don't Make Good Sailors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for taking so long to post this. My mom had a total shoulder replacement (my mom is actually Hope Solo) on Friday and of course I had to binge season 5 of OITNB, so I didn't have time to revise and post. It's here now, though, so thanks for waiting!  
> I hope you like this chapter. It might be a bit slow, but things will speed up from here. I wanted to give detail to Tobin's first day of surviving the end of the world. Lots of running.  
> Also, horizontal lines indicate passage of time, because writing in present tense LIMITS MY VERB USAGE, GAH.

_Jump ship and head for failure_

_Find yourself a tragedy_

_Slowly lose your sanity._

 

Tobin is the first person to admit that she’s impulsive and doesn’t often consider the consequences of her actions. As she stands in the entrance of her apartment building, visible to every undead being hobbling around the courtyard, she’s wishing she would have thought this through and went out the back. _Add this to the Top 5 Moments I’ve Fucked Up in Life_ , Tobin thinks as all the undead heads seem to snap in her direction in unison. They start limping toward the door, eyes focused solely on the fresh meat in the vicinity. She falls back into the building, pulling the door with her as she hits the ground. She cranes her neck around, looking for anything to barricade the door. There’s nothing, and she panics, scrambling down the nearest set of stairs. She doesn’t stop to watch the zombies crowding at the double doors, pushing against the glass.

 

Tobin misses the last stair and tumbles into the basement of the building. It’s one long hall lined with doors that lead into storage lockers. There are a couple of lockers in each room, and most of the rooms have windows. Tobin enters one of the middle rooms and slams the door shut. Floor-to-ceiling lockers take up both walls on either side of her, and at the end of the room is a wall with a small window. She bolts toward it, pulling herself up onto the ledge and peering outside. There’s no walking dead in the immediate area, but she can see the crowd of them at the front door. The window is pretty well hidden by some hedges outside.

 

Tobin takes a few steadying breaths, trying to calm the pounding in her ribcage. She fumbles with the latches on the window, old and rusted and covered in cobwebs. The latches unclasp, and she pushes the window open and pulls herself through. Tobin tries to be as quiet as possible, wincing as she hits the ground with a thud, landing on her back. _Who builds a fucking basement above ground_ , she grimaces as she rubs her lower back and peers through the bushes. The dead still huddle at the front door, striking the glass. She gets into a crouching position, eyes level with the top of the hedges, staking out an escape route. There’s no zombies in her line of vision, a straight shot to the road leading out of the complex. _It’s now or never_. Tobin bounds out of the bushes. She doesn’t try to be quiet, she doesn’t pause, and she doesn’t look back.

 

She continues running until she doesn’t hear the grunts and groans of the undead who trail after her. When she stops, she’s just outside downtown Portland. She falls to her knees, every muscle in her body burning, breathing ragged. _Glad I could put all those years of soccer to some use after all_ , she thinks, staring ahead at the entrance to the city. She considers following this road and checking out the city to see what’s left, if anything. Alternately, she could take the fork in the road leading to the next town and make her way out of Oregon. Tobin picks herself up and decidedly begins walking.

 

She chooses the city route, thinking she’s more likely to scavenge some useful items here versus on Oregon’s dirt back roads. She scolds herself for wanting to stop at her favorite coffee and pastries shop for a dirty chai, as if the cute barista would be there ready to take her order. There’s a part of her that still thinks this might just be a sick joke, and she’s going to walk into the city and see everyone going about their lives as usual. The kids will be skateboarding down Lime Street. Families will be eating dinner at the numerous restaurants, sitting in the outdoor seating, enjoying the sunshine. People will be walking dogs, shopping, carrying coffee cups, laughing, smiling, living. Tobin smiles, expecting to see the city she loves unscathed.

 

It’s a ghost town. Nothing is the same as the last time she had seen the city. The buildings are still standing, her surroundings are structurally alike. However, her favorite Starbucks is on fire, thick black smoke wafting in the air around the cafe. Shops lining the streets are demolished, windows shattered and roofs collapsed. Hotels and apartment buildings are crumbled and barren. Abandoned vehicles fill the streets. Everyone had been trying to escape, but there had been nowhere to go, no way out. Military tanks and vehicles are among the wreckage on the streets, obstructing exits. _Jesus Christ, Kling wasn’t lying about the army getting involved_. Some military cars are laying on their sides, clearly having been pushed over by some massive force. Blood is splattered all over the cars, chunks of flesh stuck in the crevices of the tires.

 

_“...everyone was dying blood everywhere all over the streets they were running people over with tanks just a massacre…”_

 

Blood colors the streets, the sidewalks, splashes on cars, walls of buildings. Severed body parts lay scattered everywhere Tobin looks, the result of bombs destroying everything, dead or alive, in their path.

 

Downtown Portland is ravaged, but it isn’t completely lifeless. Much to Tobin’s dismay, upon entering the city, she becomes the subject of every walking dead man’s interest within a five mile radius of where she stands, mouth agape, frozen in panic.

 

She dashes into the first shop she sees to escape the stampede of moaning, grunting zombies headed her way. It’s a consignment shop called Stuff & Thangs. Tobin would often come to the shop in search of retro video games and gaming systems. Presently, all she wants from this place is safety.

 

She barricades the double doors with an antique oak armoire and matching dresser and races through the aisles of second-hand treasures until she hits the back of the store. Trying to catch her breath, she leans against the back wall, watching as the mass of zombies pound on the glass doors, scratching and clawing, screeching and groaning. _That glass won’t hold long, I’ve gotta get out of here_. Tobin searches along the back wall of the store, finding a door to what she assumes is either a back storage room or another exit. It turns out to be both, plus a small office with a window peering into a back alley. Tobin peeks out the window, observing no one in the alley.

 

She quickly makes her way back out into the main store area, watching as hundreds of the dead lean against the windows and doors of the shop, desperately trying to get inside. _I have to go out the back. They’re all right there, they won’t notice me leaving through the back!_ Tobin goes back inside the small room, closing the door behind her. She props a wooden chair against the doorknob and inspects the desk in the corner, hoping to find a weapon better than an old Rachel Ray butcher knife. She tips over a filing cabinet and kicks around the papers and folders that fly out. She rummages through every desk drawer until she finds an old jungle machete in a camouflage sheath.

 

“Seriously? You wanna defend your fucking store with a goddamn machete over a fucking revolver!? God dammit, Troy!” she seethes, grabbing the weapon anyway and shoving it into her belt loop.

 

She surveys the mess she made of the back room, silently apologizing to Troy the store owner, _if he’s even still alive_ , and bolts through the back door into the alley. She flees the city, running through back alleys, hopping over parked cars, jumping on top of cars, all the while hacking away at any decrepit body in her path. _Run, Rabbit, Run_.

 

* * *

 

Legs pumping, feet pounding the pavement, Tobin races with the setting sun, desperately searching for a safe place to stop. She doesn’t know how long she’s been running. She’s out of Portland, she knows that much, but she can’t see well in the dusk. She’s nowhere near the suburbs, but far enough out that she finds a few motels and gas stations for people who couldn’t afford the luxurious downtown hotels.

 

Tobin stops at a ramshackle motel that sits on the side of the main road. The structure is U-shaped, the reception and office room in the middle. An old soda machine is outside the the office door. No lights are on in any of the rooms. A few beat-up cars are parked in the lot. The sign, Timberland Motel, is illuminated, the harsh neon light assaulting Tobin’s eyes. The “no vacancy” letters underneath are dark. _What an ugly sign. That neon light is ri- LIGHT_.

 

“The light is on!” Tobin yells, darting toward the outermost room. “There’s power! The sign is lit!” Tobin’s heart is pounding, more from excitement than running. She skids to a halt at the door and grips the doorknob. It won’t budge. _Fuck, it’s locked_.

 

“Is anyone in there?” Tobin shouts at the door, pounding on the wood and jerking the knob. “I’m alive out here! I won’t hurt anyone! I just need a place to stay!” She hears nothing behind the door. She looks down the row at the other five doors, six doors on each side of the office. She tries the next door, turning the knob, but it’s also locked. Frustrated, she grabs the door frame and brings her leg up to the door, the bottom of her boot resting on it. Tobin slams her foot into the door repeatedly until it swings open.

 

She is immediately hit in the face with a foul odor carried out with musty air. She coughs, backing away from the door. She pulls the collars of her shirt over her nose and looks inside the room.

 

A woman’s body is splayed out on the bed atop blood-soaked sheets. The crown of her head is completely blown off, the little hair she has left matted and bloody. Her jaw is disconnected, hanging on her face by a few strings of tissue. The woman’s eyes are frozen wide open, fixed on the ceiling. Her arm is hanging off the bed, a rifle resting on the floor under her hand. _She fucking shot herself through the chin with a rifle_. Tobin approaches the doorway, standing in the frame and surveying the rest of the room. A young girl sits at the foot of the bed, slumped over. A man is sitting upright in a chair next to the bed, his face a gaping hole of burnt and bloody flesh. Tobin backs up and vomits outside the door, nothing but pure stomach acid leaving her mouth.

 

_They killed themselves. The whole fucking family. Why?_

 

Tobin grabs the doorknob, about to shut the door when she eyes the rifle again, only a few feet away. She tries to ignore the rancid smell and steps into the room. She bends down and leans toward the gun, arm stretched out, eyes scanning the bodies. Her fingertips barely brush the barrel when she hears throaty groans coming from the young girl.

 

Paralyzed, Tobin slowly turns her head in the young girl’s direction.

 

The girl is sitting up, staring at her through cloudy eyes, teeth bared and forehead wrinkled in a scowl. Tobin thinks that she looks almost normal despite her hazy eyes and clay colored skin - no guts hanging out of the abdomen, no bones protruding from the skin. The girl’s shirt is saturated with blood, a bullet hole visible on her chest. She can’t be more than 10, Tobin thinks. She feels sick at the thought of shooting a little girl in the chest.

 

Tobin can’t will her body to move, and the girl pounces on Tobin. Her hands grip Tobin’s shoulders, pushing Tobin onto her back. _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_ The girl hisses and growls, snapping her teeth and craning her neck to bite Tobin’s throat. Tobin punches the girl in the face, but she maintains a strong hold of Tobin, pinning her down. _How the fuck is she this strong?_

 

“Oh god, oh god, oh god! No! Fuck!” Tobin wraps both hands around the girl’s neck, pushing her back. The girl’s nails dig into Tobin’s skin as she continues pushing forward, snarling like a rabid dog. It feels like electricity is surging through every cell in Tobin’s body. Her breaths are fast and shallow, and tears well in her eyes.

 

“I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt a little girl,” Tobin whimpers. The girl’s hands grasp the fabric of Tobin’s shirt, pulling Tobin toward her mouth. Tobin cries out, one hand moving to grab the girl’s blond hair at the top of her head, the other hand remaining tightly braced around her neck. Tobin stares straight into the girl’s fog covered irises, searching, pleading. _Please show me that you’re still in there_.

 

The girl continues snarling at Tobin, desperate to sink her teeth into flesh. She resembles a feral animal, and Tobin knows the young girl is gone.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Tobin chokes out. The hand gripping the girl’s hair snaps her head to the side. A loud crunch seems to echo around the room as the girl’s body goes limp, falling into Tobin’s arms. She pushes the girl away, tears streaming down her face. The girl lands on her back, eyes wide, staring ahead into nothing. Tobin breathes in, the stench of decaying flesh bringing her back.

 

Tobin glances up at the wall, blood and brain matter painting the floral wallpaper. Written in the blood, a message reads: “There’s no way out.” Tobin snatches the rifle off the ground and crawls out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

 

Leaning against the door, Tobin struggles to open the chamber of the rifle. She finds no bullets inside. She slams her head back into the door, blood boiling, shaking with rage.

 

“I killed her for nothing!” Tobin wails, chucking the rifle into the parking lot. She turns back to the door she first tried to open, using all her anger to kick the door in. It swings open, no horrible smells emanating from inside. It’s a normal room, equipped with a bed, a dresser, a desk, a chair, a nightstand, and a small bathroom. Tobin stands in the doorway, looking behind her at the parking lot and the main road she traveled on. Dusk had become dark, only the motel sign lighting the lot. Tobin turns around and steps inside, closing the door behind her. She grabs the chair from the desk and jams it under the doorknob.

 

Tobin sits on the bed, a double with an ugly floral comforter. She contemplates switching on the lamp on the nightstand, but thinks better of it. She slides her phone out of her pocket and presses the home button. The screen lights up, 9:36pm, Sunday, May 8. The battery is at 20%. Fatigue sets in as she sheds her backpack and lays back onto the bed. She’s all too aware of how gross she feels, a layer of sticky sweat coating her skin. Her hair is damp and oily from sweat and humidity. Her jeans feel glued to her legs.

 

Despite her muscles begging for her to stay down, Tobin sits up and empties her backpack onto the bed. She grabs her phone charger and plugs it into the wall. She silently prays for the power to work as she connects the phone. It vibrates and lights up. Tobin sighs, smiling as she gets up and makes her way to the bathroom. _One little victory. I’ll take it._

 

She peels the clothes from her body and throws them onto the floor outside the bathroom. She leans into the shower and cranks the handle completely to the H. Water pours from the showerhead, beating softly on the bathtub floor. It’s music to Tobin’s ears. She wouldn’t even care if the water doesn’t warm up. She steps inside and aligns her body with the showerhead. She shivers under the cold water, now feeling more alert. As she runs her fingers through her hair, the water begins to warm up. It’s barely above tepid, but it’s the best feeling in the world.

 

Tobin leans into the shower tile, resting her forehead against the cool surface. _This almost feels normal_ , she laughs to herself. _But nothing is normal. I killed a little girl for a gun with no bullets._ She replays the scene over in her head: opening the door, finding the family dead, going for the gun, snapping the girl’s neck. She remembers the message written in the blood on the wall. _“There’s no way out.” They did it because they felt there was no other option. They thought there was nothing left._ More tears snake a path down Tobin’s cheeks, salt water mingling with tap water.

 

“They’re right,” Tobin cries, turning away from the showerhead. “I got out of town, but what have I seen? Carnage. A fucking bloodbath. Who wouldn’t take the easy way out? There’s no other way…” She trails off, sinking to the ground, curling herself into a ball. The water beats down on her, but she no longer feels the warmth.

 

_Fuck._ Tobin begins to sob, forehead resting on her knees, her whole body convulsing. _I can’t do this alone. I don’t want to. I would rather die. I’m gonna die, anyway. I can’t do this, I can’t do this…_ Her sobs turn into coughs and hiccups, snot trailing down her mouth.

 

After a while, the tears stop stinging her eyes. She sits still, arms wrapped around her shins, chin on her knee. The water is colder now.

 

_Okay, that was nice. Your pity party is over. Get it together!_ Tobin feels delirious, almost as if she heard that voice out loud rather than inside her head.

 

_You have to keep going. For Kling, for your family, for yourself. “Assholes like you always make it through shit like this. The world needs Tobin Heath.”_ Tobin nods, pulling herself up. She turns the water off and steps out of the shower. She grabs a complimentary towel from the rack and wraps it around her body. Tobin studies her reflection in the mirror above the sink. It stares back, her normally golden brown eyes dull and bloodshot. Her face is sunburned, the skin on her cheeks and nose peeling. _It hasn’t even been a full day and I already look rough._

 

She dresses herself fully in case she would need to leave in a hurry. She downs two of the five water bottles and a couple Slim Jims she had in her backpack. She returns the remainder of her rations and belongings into the backpack and places it on the floor next to the bed. She checks her phone again - 85%, 11:00pm - and strips the bed of the comforter, balling it up and placing it beside her as she lays back. The pillows aren’t comfortable, but beggars don’t get to choose cotton pillows with satin cases. She stares at the ceiling, trying to ignore the unsightly brown spots that seem to be alive and oozing. She closes her eyes

 

_For now, we sleep. Tomorrow, we move. We’ll go south through Oregon._ Tobin tries to picture a map of the States. _Nevada is south of here. Just get to Nevada to avoid the mountains in the north. Then head east. Maybe I’ll find someone along the way._

She takes a deep breathe, blissful sleep tugging at her consciousness.

 

_Don’t lose hope. The world’s a fucked up place, but it depends on how you see it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and comments are great. I apologize for any verb inconsistencies. I didn't realize writing in present tense is a major pain, but we're in it for the long haul now. I hope to get chapter 3 up some time today, it's almost done.


	3. Fumes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! Finally, Tobin is no longer alone. I was excited to write this chapter, and revising it wasn't so painful. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it.  
> Among my many tabs open while I'm writing, several are open pertaining to the state of Nevada, such as "northern Nevada," "trees in Nevada," "map of Nevada," "plants in Nevada," and "is nevada arid or humid" lmao (apparently it is THE driest state, fun fact). Tfw you know nothing about the states your characters are traveling in and are just wingin' it. God bless Wikipedia.

_If all we have is time then we'll be alright_

  
_It's not much but it's better than nothing_

  
_We're running on fumes but we'll make it through the night._

 

Two weeks have passed since Tobin left her Portland apartment. She doesn’t know it, though. She couldn’t tell you how many times the sun has risen and set as she walks through the remains of cities once lively and flourishing. Time seems to have stopped altogether in the aftermath of whatever happened. She’s still not entirely sure what this is - the apocalypse? A CDC experiment gone terribly wrong? The Second Coming of Christ? The only thing Tobin knows is that she feels like a prisoner locked away in solitary confinement. The expanse of land before her feels like one long, never ending cage. She’s out in the open, but she feels trapped, unable to breathe deeply, dreadfully alone. She hasn’t so much as caught a glimpse of a _living_ , breathing, sentient human being since she woke up that Sunday morning.

 

_They say humans are social creatures by nature and we need companionship_ , Tobin thinks as she approaches the outskirts of Nevada. _Well, whoever “they” are, they deserve a gold fuckin’ medal for cracking the code to the human condition_.

 

Tobin continues along the road she’s been following for miles, her stomach grumbling and throat burning from thirst. She finished her meager rations a while ago, surviving only on small snack packs she’s been grabbing from gas stations and convenience stores along the way. There were a few times she was lucky enough to raid grocery stores with backup generators still running; she charged her phone and searched every aisle for subsistence better than Cheetos and Snickers. She was especially delighted when the deli departments still had prepacked sandwiches, even if the expiration date was five days ago. Though as she hiked farther away from big cities and small towns, power and food were essentially nonexistent. Eventually her phone died, leaving her with no idea of the date.

 

Tobin stops walking, her legs feeling like lead. She sighs and rubs her eyes, stinging and heavy with fatigue. Trying hard to keep her eyes open and focused, she takes in her surroundings: rugged terrain of dirt, tumbleweeds, and cacti and a beautiful mountain range on the horizon. Tobin sits on the side of the road, wiping beads of sweat off her forehead with her arm. _Why didn’t I think to grab some damn hair ties_ , she thinks, scratching the back of her head, hair saturated with sweat and sticking to her neck. She brings her backpack to her lap and fishes out a half empty warm bottle of Coke she swiped from a gas station several miles back. She had stuffed her orange backpack with some goods, all the while feeling guilty for what she considered looting, despite the circumstances. She takes a swig, trying to ignore how disgusting warm soda is. Thirst tended to for the moment, she lies on her back, resting her forearm over her eyes.

 

The earth burns the skin of her back through her thin t-shirt. The sun is high and bright, no clouds to defend Tobin’s skin against the sun’s sweltering rays. Her skin burns from the exposure, but she laughs to herself, thinking she could easily fall asleep right here, the heat fueling her exhaustion. _It’s not like this is any less comfortable than any of the places I’ve_ been _sleeping in_.

 

She was lucky that first night after leaving her home, sleep coming to her easily on the hard, squeaky mattress in the motel room. Her luck must’ve stayed in that room, as she’s been holing up in abandoned grocery stores and other shops since that night. She wanted to keep moving forward, not wanting to backtrack to motels and houses she’d passed on her way. She broke into a house in the suburbs at one point and attempted to sleep in a nice king bed, but rest eluded her; she couldn’t stop thinking about the family who lived in the house and felt like an intruder, opting to sleep in the backyard instead.

 

Presently, Tobin feels no need to get up and wants to give in to unconsciousness. Sleep almost pulls Tobin completely under until she feels something ghosting over her hand. She opens one eye to see what’s causing the sensation.

 

“JESUS FUCK!” Tobin shoots up off the ground, shaking her hand furiously. A large scorpion falls to the ground and lands on its back, its eight legs wiggling.

 

“Motherfucker! You are as big as my goddamn foot! Jesus Christ!” Tobin shudders, grabbing her bag and soda and backing away from the scorpion, now on its feet and inching its way toward her. If there’s one thing that still scares Tobin more than voracious dead men chasing her, it’s any and all arachnids. She resists the urge to step on the scorpion and brushes the sienna dust from her shirt and jeans. _Watch that shit come back to life, too._

 

Tobin downs the rest of the Coke and lobs the bottle into the desert brush. _Shoot, maybe I should’ve taken that to the nearest recycling facility, as if the world_ hasn’t _become a giant dumpster!_ She chuckles and advances, moving from the dirt back onto the paved road. The air is dry and dusty, every breath feeling like her lungs are burning. She knows she can’t stop here; she has to keep moving to get out of this terrain.

 

Using her hand to shield her eyes, Tobin sees the outline of a sign in the near distance. _I must be approaching the border_. The mountainous horizon seems closer, pine tree forests visible at the base of the mountains. She wants to run and get out from under the sun as fast as possible, but she knows she’d drop dead within minutes. Tobin resolves to moving at a steady pace, never taking her eyes off of the approaching mountains. _It’s getting closer. I’m almost there._

 

Tobin reaches the sign, sweat streaming down her face and thirst returned with a vengeance. The sign reads “Welcome to Nevada, the Silver State.” She smiles from ear to ear, throwing her head back and pumping a fist in the air.

 

“I’m out of Oregon!” she shouts to the sky. She basks in her glory, the sunlight surrounding her feeling like a golden embrace of victory. Then reality smacks her in the face with the fact that D.C., her true destination, is still across the country.

 

“And I still got a long fuckin’ way to go! Wahoo!”

 

Tobin sighs, running her fingers along the wooden letters on the sign, faded black acrylic on cherry wood.

 

She swings her backpack over her shoulder and fishes out her camera, raising it to her left eye and snapping a picture of the sign. _Never thought I’d see the silver state, may as well commemorate that, too_. Tobin had been snapping pictures as she made her way through Oregon, pictures of the near complete destruction of civilization. She wanted to keep evidence that the dead were in fact rising and pursuing the living. Tobin was careful to capture images of the zombies as they passed by her, hidden among trees or pressed in the shadows of buildings. Maybe once this was all over, some of her post-apocalyptic photography would make it into museums and history books, if civilization is ever rebuilt.

 

Tobin stands there, staring past the sign into the stretch of land before her, completely new territory. As she crosses the threshold into Nevada, she realizes that she’s not entirely sure how she has gotten to this point. _Tobin Heath: couch potato extraordinaire, lazy artist, and frequent drunkard survives the End of Days by the skin of her teeth_. She has no knowledge or skills regarding nature and living off the land. She grew up in the city and can barely function without her iPhone. The only things keeping her alive were her ironically athletic build and clever wit.

 

Tobin continues walking, munching on a pack of nuts. The road Tobin is traveling on comes to an end, leading into a parking lot and posted signs outside of a forested area. _Probably a state park_ , Tobin thinks as she crosses into the woods.

 

The crunching of sticks, stones, and leaves under her boots makes Tobin nervous. She moves through the trees and brush more quickly, jumping on large rocks jutting out of the ground. She wants to avoid the walking dead at all costs, too fatigued to fight. She crouches on a large rock, scoping her surroundings for signs of life. She hears nothing and sighs, plopping down onto the rock. _Where am I gonna fucking sleep in these woods? I’m no Katniss, I can’t climb a tree and make my bed on a branch_. Tobin rests her head in the palm of her hand, arm propped on a thigh.

 

Suddenly her eyes shoot open and her body stiffens. A couple yards away, twigs snap and leaves rustle. The sound is unmistakable: this is no zombie shuffling around haphazardly. There is a living being stalking about in Tobin’s immediate surroundings, and it can see her.

 

Tobin slowly rises into a crouching position, feeling along her waist for the sheathed machete. She’s not sure if whatever is there is a person or an animal, but it definitely isn’t one of _them_.

 

“Hey!” she shouts in the direction of the rustling. Nothing moves. She half expects a deer or a rabbit to go running. _Someone’s there_. She focuses on the trunk of a tree that is directly in her line of vision.

 

“I know you’re not a zombie, and you’re clearly not a deer, so just come on out!” Nothing happens. Tobin cranes her neck, hoping whoever is there will at least peak their face from behind the trunk. She is certain someone is there; she can feel eyes on her.

 

Tobin is becoming impatient, waiting for the being to reveal itself. She jumps down from the rock, landing on the ground with a thud. She refuses to look away from the tree. Slowly, she walks toward the trunk. Tobin stops about 10 feet away and reaches for the butcher knife out of her belt loop. She grips the handle, blade facing the tree, and holds it next to her face. In her other hand, she slides the jungle machete out of its sheath and grasps it, ready for use.

 

“Last chance! Show yourself!” Tobin yells, bending her knees into a fighting stance. A bead of sweat trails from her forehead down her cheek. She takes a deep breath, taking aim at an eye-shaped crevice in the middle of the trunk. Tobin throws the butcher knife, and it lands exactly in the crevice, an inch of the blade submerged in the wood. She grins at herself, pleasantly surprised.

 

And the act has exactly the desired effect.

 

A shriek sounds from behind the tree, and a young woman jumps out into view.

 

She’s pointing a gun directly at Tobin.

 

“Whoa there, Rambo Resurrected! I’m gonna need you to put the knife down,” the woman warns, voice unwavering.

 

Tobin is fully aware that the muzzle of the revolver is pointed right between her eyes, and that this should terrify her and be the primary focus of her attention at this moment. However, she can’t help staring past the gun into the woman’s glaring eyes, the most vibrant green she’s ever seen. She stares at the long curling eyelashes bordering sage green eyes.

 

“Put the knife down!” the woman demands, snapping Tobin back to the present situation. Tobin shakes her head and glances down at her hand.

 

“It’s a machete!” Tobin snaps back, maintaining her grip on the weapon.

 

“Put. It. Down.” The woman cocks the revolver and waits, jaw clenched, watching Tobin intently. _Is she really going to shoot me? Am I that much of a threat compared to those things?_ Tobin surrenders and slides the machete into the sheath. She raises both hands up, palms facing the woman, and takes a step back.

 

“There, it’s put away, okay? No need to shoot me. Put the gun dow-”

 

“Get on your knees,” the woman orders, gun still aimed at Tobin, finger hovering over the trigger. Tobin furrows her brow and wrinkles her nose, annoyed.

 

“Seriously? What the fuck is this? Are you a cop or somethin’?” Tobin retorts. The woman maintains a strong poker face.

 

“Get on your knees, now!” The woman strides up to Tobin and pushes the muzzle of the gun into Tobin’s forehead. Tobin closes her eyes and sighs deeply, lowering herself to the ground and onto her knees. _She’s going to kill me. She’s going to kill me execution-style. And here I thought the immediate threat was the walking dead!_

 

She feels small kneeling down in front of this stranger, and she’s scared. Tobin fights back tears. Sarcasm wasn’t helping her situation. She isn’t above begging for her life after all she’s been through already.

 

“Please don’t kill me,” she chokes out, shaking. The woman pulls the gun back, the tip leaving an indent on Tobin’s forehead. Tobin winces. She doesn’t dare look up at the woman, unsure if she’s in the clear or not. The woman stares at the body below her, scanning the exposed skin of Tobin’s face, neck, and arms. She furrows her brows.

 

“Take your shirt off.” Tobin opens her eyes wide, brows pushed together. _Did I...Did I hear her right? “Take my shirt off?”_ She tilts her head up to face the woman, looking for a sign that she’s joking. The woman stares back, stone-faced, waiting.

 

Tobin decides to bite her tongue and comply with the woman’s demands. _Why does my life seem like a bad porno_ , she thinks as she reaches behind her neck and grabs the collar of her shirt, pulling it over her head. Her cheeks burn and sweat collects on her forehead as she remains kneeled in front of the woman, her torso clad in only a black sports bra. _Should’ve worn my Calvins…_

 

The woman inspects every inch of Tobin’s upper body. She circles the kneeling woman, leaning in for a closer look of her abdomen, back, and neck. She instructs Tobin to raise her arms, examining every angle. Tobin watches her closely, unsure why her body is being scrutinized by this stranger. The woman gets down on one knee in front of Tobin.

 

“Have you been bitten or scratched by them?” she asks plainly, her alluring eyes staring directly into Tobin’s. Tobin stares back, completely unaware of what the woman just said. She’s too busy counting the gray specks in the woman’s eyes. The woman purses her lips and grabs Tobin’s chin, jolting her back to reality.

 

“Have they bitten or scratched you? Have you ingested their bodily fluids?”

 

“What the fuck!? Disgusting! No, no, no. They haven’t touched me and I sure as hell haven’t _ingested_ them,” Tobin spits back. “Can I put my shirt back on now? Have you seen enough?” The woman nods and stands up. Tobin grabs the gray t-shirt from the ground and shakes it before pulling it back over her head and tugging it over her torso.

 

She slowly stands up, holding her hands up and watching the woman. The woman seems lost in thought, facing the ground, looking at nothing. Tobin eyes the revolver in its holster on the woman’s belt. She takes a few steps back to the rock she had been sitting on and picks up her backpack. She fishes out a small pack of trail mix and closes the zipper, slinging the backpack over her shoulder.

 

Tobin approaches the woman, who watches her with a brooding expression on her face. Tobin holds out the trail mix, a peace offering. A smile plays on the woman’s lips and she accepts the gift.

 

Tobin watches as the woman tears open the pack and pours a small amount into her palm. This is the first chance she’s gotten to really study the stranger. The woman’s long dark brown hair is pushed away from her face by a black bandana tied around her head. Her arms are toned, visible through a white sleeveless t-shirt. She’s wearing a backpack, and has a red and black plaid shirt tied around her waist. Tobin scans the woman’s lower body, clad in loose fitting blue jeans and Timberlands. Tobin bites her bottom lip.

 

_Fuck, she’s hot_.

 

Tobin clears her throat, trying to bring herself back to the present. “Given the fact that you just held a gun to my head, forced me on my knees, and made me undress myself, _all before the first date_ , I would like to at least know your name,” she asserts, grinning.

 

The woman smirks and rolls her eyes. “I needed to assess the immediate threat. I’m Christen. And you,” nodding at Tobin, “who are you, waltzing through the woods dressed like you’re going to a show for some obscure indie band?” Tobin genuinely laughs and runs her fingers through her hair, suddenly self-conscious of her appearance.

 

“I’m Tobin. I didn’t really change clothes before I left my apartment.” She glances down at her hands, dirt caked in her fingernails. “I guess I look a little grungy. It’s been a rough end-of-the-world.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Christen tries to reassure Tobin. “I haven’t had a shower since this mess began. Where did you come from?” She pours more trail mix into her palm and brings it to her mouth.

 

“I live in Portland, in an apartment just outside the city,” Tobin answers. “How about you? Where are you from?”

 

Christen swallows. “Chicago.” She pours the rest of the trail mix into her mouth.

 

Tobin’s eyes widen. “Holy shit. How did you get here from Chicago without getting killed!?” _I barely made it through one state, let alone like, five states!_

 

“There’s not a lot of them in the Midwest.” Christen shrugs. “It didn’t take much to get this far. The cities are the worst. Dense population means massive numbers of walkers.”

 

“‘Walkers?’ That’s what you call them?” Tobin laughs. She didn’t exactly know what to call the poor undead bodies stumbling around. “ _Walkers” has a nice ring to it._

 

“I heard some people call them that back in Nebraska. It seemed more accurate than ‘zombies.’” Christen swings her maroon bag over her shoulder and stuffs the trail mix wrapper inside. Tobin watches, smirking.

 

“Hey, the world may have ended, but I’m still against littering.”

 

“Why are you in Nevada?” Tobin asks, itching to know more about Christen. “I’m trying to get to the east coast. My friend said there’s refuge in D.C.”

 

A somber expression crosses Christen’s face. “My family is in Los Angeles. I need to find them.” Tobin has a thousand questions to ask her new apparent ally, but the look on Christen’s face silences Tobin. She knows how Christen feels - she’s tried not to think too much about her family in Jersey until she gets there.

 

Tobin stands there, quiet, watching Christen ponder something. Tobin doesn’t know what to say, but Christen speaks.

 

“I’m gonna proposition you,” Christen begins. “You obviously aren’t doing too well on your own.” Annoyed, Tobin begins to protest, but Christen holds up her hand, beckoning Tobin to hear her out.

 

“All you have is a machete. I have guns. Come with me to L.A. and help me find my family, and I’ll get you to D.C.” Tobin watches her closely, searching for a hint of dishonesty. Christen stares back with a straight face.

 

_I guess_ _we’re on good terms now_ , Tobin thinks, staring down at her feet. Her boots are scuffed and coated in dirt. _I don’t want to be alone anymore. I could really use a friend. What have I got to lose?_

 

“So...Do we have a deal?” Christen asks, a hint of hope in her voice.

 

Tobin smiles and nods. “Sounds good. But I was doing just fine by myself, you know.”

 

“Hah! Yeah, I bet you were, wielding your machete and Martha Stewart collectible kitchenware.” Her grin is wide, showing all her perfect teeth. Her smile is blinding and Tobin feels her chest tighten in a way that it hasn’t in a very long time.

 

“Excuse you, it was a Rachel Ray butcher knife.” Tobin sighs. She looks past Christen into the trees that go on for miles. She looks around, for the first time really taking in her surroundings. She hasn’t seen a walker for miles; she doubts they’ll encounter anything worse than a bear in these woods. The trees and underbrush are dense, and worse, the sun is just starting to set. Tobin has no idea where they are, let alone how to find the road to the next town.

 

“Where do we go from here?”

 

“I take you to my camp. Then we go on an adventure.” Christen starts walking in the direction of the tree she had been hiding behind and pulls Tobin’s knife out of the trunk. She holds it out to Tobin. She accepts the knife and slides it into her belt loop.

 

“An adventure, eh?” Tobin licks her lips. “I’ll let you lead the way.”

 

“You be Dante, and I’ll be your Vergil,” Christen smiles. “I’ll help you find Paradise.”

 

Tobin grins. “Somehow I feel as though we’ll be in Hell for a while.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now the fun begins, if the previous 3 chapters weren't fun. Expect more walkers, more slaying of walkers, tragic backstories, and eventually introduction of more WoSo characters.  
> All comments appreciated!


	4. Sanctified

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I haven't updated in like. A month. Because I was suffering from writer's block, and also I started watching Z Nation. I love it, not as much as TWD, but it's great. Any TWD fans, I highly suggest Z Nation. Murphy is a trip.  
> Also, I'm posting 3 chapters in one sitting here because these 3 chapters were all originally just chapter 4, 28 pages of 1.5 spaced drama. My English major friend said, "split this shit up I SWEAR TO GOD YOU ARE VERBOSE" and so I did. I figured that length would've scared potential readers away.  
> So yeah, here's fluff, then some drama, then more drama to come.

_Heaven’s just a rumor she’ll dispel_

_As she walks me through the nicest parts of Hell._

 

“ _This_ is your camp?”

 

Tobin stares, dumbfounded, at a Chrysler Sebring convertible parked in an open lot under pine trees that border the woods. Even in the dark, the cherry red exterior glimmers in the moonlight. Tobin looks around and notices two other cars parked on the other side of the lot, several spaces between each of them. Looking back toward the woods, Tobin observes park signs planted in the ground just outside the trees. She narrows her eyes and looks at Christen.

 

“I literally just came from this lot,” Tobin says, searching Christen’s face for an explanation.

 

“I know,” Christen says, smirking. “That’s how I saw you.” Tobin furrows her brows.

 

“There weren’t any cars when I got here,” Tobin mutters, trying to picture the parking lot only a few hours ago in the daylight. _I would’ve seen a brand new, bright red convertible standing out against the backdrop of pine trees and mountains!_

 

“Maybe you’re just not very observant,” Christen retorts, pulling open the driver’s side door of the Sebring and sliding into the seat. “I had just woken up from a nap in the backseat when I saw a grungy hipster march into the forest.” She nods at the passenger seat, motioning for Tobin to get in. Tobin runs her fingers along the smooth surface of the car as she makes her way to the passenger door. _How dare you accuse a photographer of being unobservant_ , Tobin thinks, climbing in and settling down into the seat.

 

Tobin looks around, examining the inside of the car. The seats are an off-white plush leather, the most comfortable surface Tobin has sat on in a while. The interior is immaculate, not a speck of dust on the gray dashboard nor a particle of dirt on the floor. _If this was_ my _car, there’d be water bottles and candy bar wrappers everywhere_. This isn’t the newest or most luxurious Sebring, though. Tobin observes that it doesn’t have built-in navigation - _would that even work now? Doesn’t that need wifi?_ \- nor does it have a built-in display screen for a cell phone. _Must be an older car. Not as nice as my Audi..._ Tobin wrinkles her nose. _My dumb ass! Why didn’t I just fucking drive out of Portland!?_

 

“So...uh, is this your car?” Tobin asks, silently fuming about all the unnecessary hardship she caused herself.

 

Christen snorts, a wry grin on her lips. “Mmm, not exactly.” Tobin watches her, admiring her beautiful profile and waiting for her to elaborate. Christen looks over at Tobin out of the corners of her eyes as she turns the key in the ignition.

 

“I picked up this bad boy in Nebraska. Left my Tesla back in Iowa when it ran out of gas and there was no gas station in sight. Picked a good place to shit out on me in the middle a’ fuckin’ nowhere.” She grimaces, whipping the car back in reverse, wheels squealing. Christen shifts gears and jerks the car forward, speeding onto the road Tobin earlier traversed on foot. Tobin slams back into the seat, deciding it best to put on the seat belt. She attempts to subtly strap it over her chest, which Christen sees and heartily laughs.

 

“Sorry. I miss my car. I’m bitter that I had to leave it behind. This isn’t bad, though. Probably shouldn’t be driving luxury cars cross country, but when I saw this, I had to take it. The keys were in the ignition.” Tobin looks out the window, watching as the surroundings pass by in a blur. She can’t see where they are in the heavy darkness, the headlights only illuminating what’s immediately in front of them. She turns her head toward Christen, eyes tracing her jawline.

 

“So you stole this car.” It comes out as more of a statement than a question. Christen rolls her eyes, pressing down on the gas pedal a little more.

 

“Rambo, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but the world as we knew it has come to a halt. There are no more rules. No more laws. There is no more ‘stealing.’ Besides, I’m sure the elderly gentleman who owned this car is walking among the dead right now and isn’t too concerned about his Sebring.”

 

“My _name_ is Tobin. And how do you know this was an old guy’s car?”

 

Christen stares ahead, tight-lipped. “Call it a hunch.”

 

_I feel that there are some things that she’s not telling me, but I’m not gonna press it. For now._ Tobin leans her head against the window, closing her eyes and breathing deeply through her nose. She’s exhausted, her eyes heavy and begging for rest, but she doesn’t want to sleep. Her mind is racing with questions for her new companion. Christen looks over at Tobin.

 

“You can sleep. Put the seat back. And you can throw your bag in the backseat. That’s where I have my stuff.” Tobin looks down at her backpack between her feet.

 

“I’m okay. Thanks, though. I don’t need to sleep.” She leans back, resting her head on the headrest and watching the road through the windshield.

 

“I took a nap, dude, so I’m well rested. Er, as rested as one can be in these circumstances. I’m planning on going for several miles, until I find a gas station or cars to siphon gas. Sleep if you need to, I don’t mind the silence.” Tobin sighs.

 

“Alright, you win. I _am_ pretty tired. Wake me if you need a conscious being for good company.” Christen nods as Tobin pulls a lever on the side of the seat and leans the seat back about halfway. She unbuckles the belt and grabs her hoodie from her bag, spreading it on her chest. The air has cooled significantly since the sun set. She continues to stare ahead, waiting for sleep to overcome her. Christen glances at the woman, smiling softly.

 

“Want me to put the top down? The stars are really beautiful now. The wind might lull you to sleep.” Tobin glimpses up at the retractable roof.

 

“Yeah, that’d be cool.”

 

Christen smiles and presses a button on the steering wheel. Slowly the roof pulls back and collapses, revealing the brilliant stars hovering in the night sky. The sight is exquisite, something Tobin has never seen before. Living in the city, she doesn’t get to see the nights like this, light pollution obscuring the celestial bodies. The view is reminiscent of her childhood trips to the mountains with her family, where her father would take her and her siblings outside with a telescope to map the constellations.

 

Tobin smiles, closing her eyes and settling back into the seat.

 

“Thanks, Christen.”

 

“You’re welcome, _Tobin_. Goodnight.”

 

* * *

 

Tobin wakes up to the sun’s harsh rays burning into her eyelids. She rubs her eyes, yawns, and stretches. _Shit. I haven’t slept that good in days._ She continues laying back, looking through the windshield with narrowed, sleepy eyes. The car is stopped, parked on the side of the road. The scenery hasn’t changed: miles and miles of dirt on either side of a single road, mountains always on the horizon and the sun always high and blazing. Tobin yawns again and looks to the driver’s seat. Christen isn’t sitting there. Tobin feels panic crawling through her chest when a sudden bang on the passenger window jolts her fully awake.

 

“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!” Christen sings from outside the door. “Haha, get it? ‘Cause we’re stopped at a rest stop and diner? Haha!” Clearly pleased with herself, Christen dances to the back side of the car, opening the gas tank handle and inserting the tip of a gas pump into the opening. Tobin sticks her tongue out at Christen, leaning forward and looking out to see the old-fashioned gas station alongside a retro diner. “Grimes Rest-Stop and Cafe,” reads a round sign mounted next to the small building. _Grimes. Isn’t- wasn’t that a band?_

 

“Somehow I don’t think there’s any overly chipper waitresses ready to serve us breakfast and coffee,” Tobin says, stepping out of the car. She stretches her arms out above her head, another yawn escaping her lips.

 

“Ugh, don’t mention coffee,” Christen whines, hanging the pump back up and moving to the trunk of the car. “I miss it terribly. I would gladly give my humanity for one venti Americano.”

 

“Word. Pretty sure coffee replaced the blood in my veins at one point.” Tobin looks at the shack behind the two gas pumps, a small structure big enough for an attendant and not much else. There is a single window and one door on the side facing her, both painted red against the white walls. Four columns hold up a dilapidated roof, creating a narrow drive-through between the pumps and the shack. _This looks like those creepy gas stations in horror movies run by hillbillies out in the boonies. I’m getting Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Wrong Turn vibes._

 

“Alright, and there we have it,” Christen announces, setting down a red gas can next to the pump, among three other cans. “All full. We’ll be set for a while. Might be able to get pretty close to LA with all these. Help me put ‘em in the trunk.”

 

“Where’d you get all these?” Tobin asks, grabbing two by the handles and hoisting them into the open trunk of the Sebring. Christen shrugs, setting the other two in the trunk and closing the lid.

 

“While you were conked out, I did some ‘splorin’. That _shed_ of a gas station had a bunch of ‘em inside, guarded by Earl the Attendant who got a knife straight to the brain stem.” Tobin blinks, not knowing how to respond. Christen laughs.

 

“Like I said, you need me more than I need you. Let’s go check out the diner. Maybe there’s a sweet waitress named Cindy inside with a coffee pot and a need for the company of the living.”

 

Christen leads Tobin past the pumps to the front of the restaurant. _This place absolutely reads classic 50s diner,_ Tobin thinks, surveying the outside while Christen peers inside through the glass door. There’s a clock embedded in the seafoam green roof above the doorway, the hands having stopped at 6:25. “GET IN HERE” is spelled in big red letters in an arch above the clock. The diner doesn’t look like much in the daylight, the sun’s rays highlighting the dingy exterior, paint peeling and windows caked with blowing dirt, but in her mind’s eye, Tobin can imagine the neon lights making the vintage restaurant the hottest spot in the desert.

 

“You see anything?” Tobin asks, approaching the doorway, cupping her hands to her eyes to see inside. Christen hums, stepping back and pulling her gun from its holster.

 

“I see something moving behind the bar, but I’m not sure if it’s a walker or an animal.” Tobin doesn’t see anything moving beyond the marble countertop. Swivel stools with red fake leather cushions line the outer edge of the bar. The black and white checker patterned floor is oddly clean, nothing indicating anyone has been inside. Even the tables are set, placemats and silverware wrapped in napkins placed for every chair. It’s eerie, not only time having stopped on the clock but inside the diner as well.

 

“Should we chance it? If you see something, maybe we should just leave,” Tobin says, taking a step back.

 

“No, we should go in. There may be food in there, knives, other supplies.” As if on cue, Tobin’s stomach grumbles, convincing her that some stale bread in the kitchen may very well be worth a few walkers inside. Tobin reaches for her machete on her belt loop when Christen stops her, placing her hand on top of Tobin’s.

 

“Take this. Just in case,” Christen says, handing Tobin her gun. “I’d feel better if you had a more reliable weapon.”

 

“What about you? Shouldn’t you have a gun? You said you had more guns,” Tobin replies, looking back at the Sebring. Christen shakes her head, pulling open the diner door.

 

“No time for that. I want this to be a quick scavenge, in and out. Nothing will happen.”

 

The two step inside, the door hitting hanging bells on the door frame. Tobin winces, eyes scanning behind the counter, waiting for a walker to show itself. She holds the revolver in both hands at arm’s length, motioning for Christen to move forward. Christen edges toward the counter, stopping at the bar seats. Tobin follows closely, eyes scanning every inch of the restaurant, waiting for a threat to reveal itself. She looks at Christen, who stares back and shrugs.

 

“Guess we’re safe. Probably saw a raccoon or something. That door looks like it leads to a kitchen,” Christen says, pointing to a swinging door behind the counter, situated between the kitchen serving window and a counter lined with coffee and drink machines.

 

“Okay, but how do we get in?” Tobin asks, looking for a set of short swinging doors that waitresses would use to get back and forth between the kitchen and serving area. She expects to find the doors on the far side of the bar, labeled “associates only beyond this point,” but rather watches Christen hop onto the bar counter.

 

“Christen, be careful! You don’t know what’s back there!” Tobin warns, gripping the gun tighter against her chest. She feels uneasy, her heart thumping against her sternum in anticipation. _I haven’t seen a walker for miles. For days, really. They aren’t out here. Christen said they’re in the cities. There’s nothing out here…_

 

“Oh I know what’s back there,” Christen says, sliding over toward the kitchen door. “Canned vegetables, maybe stale and moldy bread, hopefully wa-”

 

_Beat._

 

A guttural roar rings in Tobin’s ears.

 

_Beat._

 

“Fucking Christ,” Tobin breathes out.

 

_Beat._

 

“Tobin! Help me! Shoot it!”

 

_Beat._

 

Tobin blinks. A young woman has Christen in a bear hug. Christen squirms against her grip, eyes wild and pleading with Tobin.

 

_Beat._

 

“Tobin, please! Shoot it! Tobin! TOBIN!”

 

Tobin watches the scene unfolding as if a patron viewing a horror movie on a big theater screen. She can’t move. She’s shaking, eyes wide, clutching the gun. Tobin can’t will her body to move, can’t bring her arm up, finger on the trigger, pull, fire.

 

_Beat._

 

Christen cranes her neck away from the walker’s eager mouth. She pushes backward, the walker a parasite clinging to her. Reaching behind herself and grabbing its shoulders, Christen bends over and forcefully pulls the undead woman over her back. The woman lands on her behind, snarling and staring up at Christen with those dead, fog-covered eyes. Christen turns to face Tobin, desperation written on her face.

 

“Tobin! The gun! Give me the gun!”

 

_Beat._

 

Tobin can’t hear her. She can’t hear anything but the blood rushing through her head. She hasn’t seen a walker in so long, she forgot what they were. She forgot the horror they instill in the living. She forgot how paralyzing it is to be confronted with one.

 

_Beat._

 

“TOBIN! THE GUN! THE GUN! GIVE IT TO ME!”

 

The undead woman is back on her feet, arms outstretched, limping toward Christen. Her teeth are bared, rotted and yellow, her bottom lip split open in several places. Three long gashes split the skin on her cheek, dried blood crusted on the open wounds. Her blond hair is pulled back in a tight bun, standing out against her gray skin. She’s clad in a typical old-fashioned waitress uniform: baby pink short-sleeved dress past her knees, collar neatly tucked, white apron around her waist dirtied with blood and food remains. The young woman was probably very beautiful before the outbreak that took her life and gave it back to her, devoid of a soul.

 

_Beat._

 

Christen punches the woman in the face, causing her to stagger backward. She howls at Christen, shuffling forward again in her low-heeled white pumps. Christen leans back into the counter, bringing a leg up to her chest and releasing it into the woman’s stomach sending her flying to the other side of the counter. She lands with a crunch to her spine, but continues to pursue Christen, springing to her feet quickly. Christen looks back to Tobin, wide-eyed, sweat streaming down her face.

 

“Tobin,” she chokes out. “Help me. Why won’t you help me?!”

 

Tobin’s breaths are shallow and ragged. She feels like she’s underwater, being dragged to the bottom of an endless ocean. Time feels slower, but she knows time never existed to begin with. Time stopped when the world stopped.

 

_Move your feet, god dammit! Move your ass! Fucking help Christen! Shoot the woman! You have to shoot her! Why won’t you just. Fucking. DO SOMETHING!_

 

Tobin does something: she drops the gun. It seems to take forever to fall from her hand, metal hitting tile resonating in her ears. Tobin stares at her hands, quivering, unable to look up and meet Christen’s eyes. Christen watches in disbelief.

 

_Beat._

 

Tobin looks back up just as Christen decidedly grabs silverware wrapped in a napkin from one of the placemats on the bar counter. The walker is inching toward Christen, eyes trained on her throat, growling. Christen shakily unwraps the silverware, throwing the spoon and fork aside and clenching the butter knife in her hand. Tobin hears more metal clanging on the floor, diegetic sound in the film playing before her.

 

_Beat._

 

The woman opens her mouth wide and releases a gruesome yowl, her head flying toward Christen’s face. Christen grabs the walker’s head, gripping the hair at the crown and drives the dull knife into the base of the woman’s skull. Christen drops her hand from the knife, the handle sticking out of the walker’s head, and pushes the woman backward. She falls on her back, plunging the knife deeper into her head.

 

Christen sighs, sinking to her knees.

 

_Beat._

 

Tobin slowly feels her senses coming back to her, stepping forward and leaning into the counter. She blinks, panting, watching Christen crawl toward the body. She smacks its face a few times; the woman doesn’t move. Christen brings herself back to her feet, walking toward Tobin. Tobin swallows. Christen lifts herself onto the countertop, crawling on her knees and then sliding to the edge on her bottom. She holds out her hand to Tobin across the bar.

 

“Help me down.”

 

Tobin nods and grabs Christen’s hand, wrapping her other arm around Christen’s waist, pulling her to the other side.

 

“Thanks.” Christen cracks her right knuckles and rolls her shoulder in circles. She looks into Tobin’s eyes and smiles.

 

Christen throws a mean right hook across Tobin’s right cheek. Tobin staggers backward, stunned.

 

“You fucking idiot! You fucking dipshit! You fucking asshole useless piece of shit!”

 

Christen stands, fuming, fists balled as Tobin stares at her, horrified, sputtering unintelligibly.

 

“Thanks for all your help!” Christen continues, striding to the door. She stops, looking back to the counter. “Oh FUCK. I didn’t check the goddamn kitchen! Was kinda busy, ya know, almost being killed!” She moves back and hops the counter, kicking open the swinging door to the kitchen. Standing in the doorway, she points back to Tobin, still recovering from the assault on her face.

 

“You. Fucking stay there. Stand guard, if you can fucking manage that.” Tobin shakes her head and steps forward.

 

“Sh-shouldn’t I-I come back a-and help get stuff?” Christen waves her off.

 

“The only thing I want you to get is a GRIP,” she spits, sneering as she enters the kitchen. “I’ll be quick. And honestly, I don’t really want to _look_ at you right now, or I’ll clock you again.”

 

Tobin’s stomach drops. She fights back tears as she leans down and picks up the gun lying on a black tile. Several tears escape, Tobin watching them spill onto the tile. One tear travels down her nose, hanging from the tip. She stands up and sniffles, and sits on one of the swivel stools, resting the gun on her thigh. _Fuck. I really fucked up. Christen could’ve been bitten ‘cause of me. She’s never gonna forgive me._ Tobin holds her face in her hands, tears wetting her palms. _I_ just _found a travel buddy and almost got her killed._

 

Christen returns through the kitchen door, carrying a box filled to the brim of canned food. She holds the box out to Tobin, who immediately rises from the stool, positioning the gun behind the waistband of her jeans on her lower back, and leans over the counter, taking the box. She tightens her forearms to sustain the surprising weight of the load.

 

“Hope you like applesauce and canned green beans,” Christen says, going back through the door. She reenters with another box full and sets it on the counter. “The kitchen is stocked full of applesauce, green beans, and carrots. The staples of every diner dish.” She hops onto the counter and scoots across the surface, landing with both feet on the floor. Tobin offers a small smile, clutching the box as Christen grabs the other one and heads for the door.

 

“Applesauce is good. Diners always have good applesauce, for whatever reason. It’s smooth, not chunky. I don’t like chunky applesauce. And it’s usually cinnamon…” Tobin jabbers, blushing at her lack of control of the word vomit, itching to fill the awkward space between them. Christen balances the box against her hip and opens the door with her free arm, not turning back to look at Tobin. Tobin sighs and holds the door open with her foot, waiting for Christen to cross through before she does.

 

Christen retrieves the car keys from her jeans pocket and presses a button on a small remote. The hood of the trunk pops open. The two walk over to the car and set the boxes inside next to the gas cans, Tobin waiting for Christen to put her box down first. _I don’t want to piss her off any more than she already is, rightfully so. I’m an idiot. A moron. A sad excuse of an apocalypse survivor…_ Tobin is shaken from her thoughts as Christen empties her maroon bag into the trunk, bottles of water rolling out onto the floor, several hitting Tobin’s hand. Tobin winces, and Christen glances at her, features softening slightly.

 

“Sorry. Get in the car,” Christen says, offering Tobin a water bottle before slamming the hood shut. Tobin accepts, and they both slide into the car seats. Christen starts the car, the engine humming softly, and pulls the Sebring away from the gas pumps and back onto the road. _Bye, Grimes,_ Tobin thinks, staring out the passenger window as the diner passes by, forever frozen in time. She thinks of the zombified woman, her body left behind the bar to rot. Tobin feels an overwhelming sadness spread through her chest, and she settles back into the soft seat, watching the sienna landscape.

 

The sun is still relatively high in the clear blue sky. Tobin considers it’s probably around 2 or 3 in the afternoon, though who can keep track anymore? She doesn’t even know what day it is, what month it is. _Does it matter what time it is now? Not like I’m gonna be late to the studio or for an appointment._ Tobin glances over at Christen, her arms stiff, her right hand resting on the bottom of the wheel. They’re riding at a steady speed, 40 miles per hour. _Probably to save gas. I’d be going at least 55, maybe even 70. I’m sick of seeing dirt ‘n cacti._

 

Christen doesn’t offer a word, though Tobin believes they should talk about what happened. Tobin hasn’t even tried to apologize, still stunned at her inability to intervene in the deadly situation. _It’s not like I haven’t been around one before! I killed some, mostly avoided them if I could. I don’t know what made this different!_ Tobin pulls at her bottom lip, ripping the dry skin off and watching the flakes fall to her legs. She takes a swig from her bottle, shaking as she twists the cap back on. She looks back to Christen from her peripheral, surprised to catch Christen side-eying her, too. Tobin takes a deep breath.

 

“Christen, I’m sorry. I froze. I’m a total dumbass and I froze. I’m really, terribly sorry I stood there like a log and didn’t help you fight that woman. I…” She stops, trying to collect her thoughts, scrambled in her mind, letters sprawled out on a Scrabble board. “I… I don’t know. I don’t know what happened. I’ve killed them before. The walkers? Portland was full of ‘em! I honestly don’t know how I got out! I don’t understand why I froze like that. I felt paralyzed, watching the woman hold you in a bear hug… Her mouth snapping at your neck… You could’ve died. Coulda become one of them.” Tobin pauses, blinking back tears starting to form, her throat constricting. Christen’s eyes never leave the road, but her arms and shoulders relax, and her expression is neutral rather than hardened.

 

“I just, I couldn’t move, Chris. It makes no sense and I don’t expect you to forgive me. I never said I was sorry, and I really am, I’m so sorry for not helping you. I’m sorry for being a stupid idiot and dropping the gun and watching with my lame mouth hanging open. I’m sorry.” Tobin breathes out. She feels like a weight has been lifted, albeit a small one. Christen purses her lips, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth and biting it. Her tongue glides over her lips and she opens her mouth.

 

“Chris,” is all she says. Tobin shakes her head, not sure if she heard her companion right.

 

“What?”

 

“You called me Chris. Not many people do that.” Tobin narrows her eyes, then raises her eyebrows in realization. She tenses her shoulders.

 

“Oh. I didn’t even realize I did that. Is that bad? I’m sorry if I crossed a line…” Tobin seems to fold in on herself, wanting to sink into the seat and minimize to the size of a cell.

 

“No, it’s fine,” Christen replies. “I’m not offended. My dad calls me Chris. Really close friends. Exes…” She trails off, lost in thought. “It’s fine, though. I call you Rambo, after all.” Christen grins, and Tobin feels like God himself lifted an entire building off her chest. Tobin chuckles and sits up in the seat a little straighter.

 

“The adventures of Chris and Rambo, post-apocalyptic heroes,” Tobin laughs. “Well, more like you’re the hero and I’m the useless sidekick. You were pretty badass, though, fighting off the woman. Pulling her over your back like that. That was some WWE shit.” Tobin looks at Christen, suddenly aware she probably shouldn’t be joking about Christen’s near-death experience. Christen smiles.

 

“Yeah, I told you I can take care of myself. Woulda been easier with a gun, though.” She shoots Tobin a knowing look. Tobin nods sheepishly, staring down at her feet.

 

“Again, I’m really sorry. I won’t fuck up next time.” Christen just hums in response.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments appreciated! Hope you enjoy these chapters!


	5. Sunspots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Retribution and realization. Enjoy!  
> (Can y'all tell I've been on a Nine Inch Nails binge lately?)

_Sunspots cast a glare in my eyes_

 

_Sometimes I forget I’m alive._

 

  
The car ride is silent, though the tension in the air has dissipated. Tobin interchanges between fiddling with the radio, trying to pick up a signal, _any_ signal, and staring out the window, really the only two options at the moment to occupy one’s mind. She still feels immensely guilty for what occurred hours before at the diner, and she can tell by Christen’s silence and body language that she hasn’t entirely forgiven Tobin’s paralysis. Tobin doesn’t want to annoy her companion any further and thus remains quiet. She won’t even give in to her hunger and ask Christen to stop the car so she can fetch some applesauce from the trunk.

 

The changeless scenery bores Tobin, causing her to fall in and out of consciousness as she rests her forehead against the window, eyes shut. She wakes, sees nothing new, slips back to restless sleep. Every bump in the road disturbs her and brings her back, but this time it’s the squealing of wheels skidding against the asphalt and Christen jerking the car into reverse that shakes Tobin into awareness.

 

“Chris! What the fuck!? What’s going on?!” Tobin watches Christen, her eyes trained on the rearview mirror. Tobin looks out to the side mirror and sees someone standing on the side of the road. _A person? Did Chris see them when we drove past? Do they need help?_ Christen swerves the car to a stop a few feet from where the person stands. Tobin furrows her brows, staring at Christen.

 

“Do they need our help? Did they signal you or something?”

 

“Where’s the gun?” Christen says, eyes focused on the stranger on the road. Tobin feels along her back and pulls the gun from her waistband, holding it out for Christen.

 

“Here. Why? For safety? That doesn’t look like a walker.” Christen stares Tobin dead in the eyes, brows knitted together, jaw clenched.

 

“Get out of the car, Tobin.”

 

Tobin gulps, her heart pounding as a profound fear overcomes her. Christen steps out of the car, slamming the door shut and crossing to the passenger side. She swings the door open and grabs Tobin’s arm.

 

“Let’s go!” she orders, roughly pulling Tobin out. Tobin lands on her bottom, gripping the gun in her hand, as Christen kicks the passenger door closed. She hooks her arms under Tobin’s and pulls a speechless Tobin to her feet.

 

“What’s going on?!” Tobin shouts, wriggling in Christen’s grip. “Chris, what the fuck?! What are you doing?” Christen pushes Tobin’s back and she trips forward, standing in front of the stranger. The person is looking down, their long, shaggy brown hair covering their face. Slightly bent over, their muscular arms hang out in front of their torso unnaturally, like a wind-up robot that needs cranked. Despite their position, the figure is tall, and Tobin assumes the stranger is a man. He wears a tattered, faded black Metallica tshirt and basic blue jeans covered in blood and grime. His feet are bare, caked in mud, untrimmed toenails yellow and chipped. Tobin exhales, fighting the panic attacking her body.

 

Christen snaps her fingers in the person’s direction. “Hey! Hey asshole, fresh meat right here!” Tobin glares at her in horror. The man finally looks up, provoked by Christen’s snapping. He has a scruffy beard, stained red around the mouth, fresh blood coating the coarse hairs. His eyes give away his status: he’s one of them. A walker, Christen calls them. His eyes are rimmed red and surrounded by deep purple sunken circles, his irises gray, the pupil hidden and the encompassing white turned pale yellow. _Fuck. Fuck, not again. Move, Tobin. Back away._ The man stretches his mouth into a wide, sinister grin, a smile that Tobin will never be able to forget.

 

Christen steps forward until her front is pressed into Tobin’s back, her lips hovering right next to Tobin’s ear.

 

“Shoot it,” she hisses, hands pressed into Tobin’s shoulders. “You have to kill it. Shoot it in the head. Put it to rest.” Tobin looks down at the gun in her hand, knows how easy it would be to just raise her arm, aim and fire into the man’s forehead. But she can’t do it. 

 

“I, I can’t do it, Chris,” Tobin chokes out, her throat tightening, fighting down sobs. The man limps in Tobin’s direction, inches away from her, arms reaching for her. Low growls escape his throat. _Why is she making me do this? Why couldn’t we just drive past him?_

 

“Tobin,” Christen says, her tone harsh. “You _have_ to kill it. You have to. There is no ‘I can’t.’ You kill it, or it kills you.” Tobin steps back. She shakes her head.

 

“I can’t, I can’t. It’s not fair. Christen, why? We could’ve just driven, we could’ve just passed him…” Christen breathes out and kicks the backs of Tobin’s knees. They buckle, and Tobin falls forward, hitting the ground hard on her knees. Christen moves to stand behind the man, his eyes fixed on Tobin. She reaches up and grabs the hair at the base of his neck. Now he notices Christen’s presence, twisting his neck to look at her, snarling and grunting at her. Tobin watches from the ground, paralyzed with terror.

 

“It dies or you die, Tobin. Make your choice.” Christen shoves the man forward. He loses his footing.

 

_Here it is again. This paralysis._

 

Tobin can feel her breath caught in her throat, her heart skip a beat or maybe even stop altogether. She can feel the blood slow its course through her veins, every nerve ending lighting up and firing signals. She feels it all so vividly. Yet as she watches the undead middle-aged Metallica fan fall in what felt like slow motion on top of her, she doesn’t see it clearly. It’s more like she’s floating above her body, above the situation unfolding below her.

 

However, the dream state that has overtaken Tobin’s consciousness is severed when the crushing weight of the large undead man delivers her back to reality: There is a walker on top of her and his mouth is dangerously close to Tobin’s jugular vein.

 

“CHRIS! CHRIS! FUCK! CHRIS HELP ME!” Tobin holds the man back, her forearm pressing defensively into his neck as he leans his head down, trying to catch her flesh in his teeth. She cranes her neck to look past the man’s wide shoulders and sees Christen standing, mouth agape and eyes wide, fear painting her features along with some other emotion Tobin can’t detect.

 

The man wails as he swipes at Tobin, flinging his limbs erratically. Tobin whips him across the face with the butt of the revolver, opening the skin on his cheek. A disturbing shriek rattles in his throat and he pins Tobin down hard, hands clutching her shoulders. She can’t fend him off much longer; the arm keeping his neck pushed back is weak and shaking.

 

“TOBIN KILL IT SHOOT IT IN THE HEAD WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU WAITING FOR!” Christen’s eyes are wild, broken blood vessels swimming around the iris. A thick tendon stands out in her neck. Tobin looks back and forth between the man and Christen, her lower lip quivering, unable to force any words out.

 

“FOR CHRIST SAKE TOBIN FUCKING KILL IT! SHOOT IT! SHOOT IT!”

 

The man shoves himself further down onto Tobin, her arm pinned between their chests. His wanting mouth is inches from her neck.

 

“I’M NOT DOING THIS FOR YOU TO FUCKING DIE! KILL IT!”

 

_“It.”_

 

Tobin lets out a barbaric shriek of her own as she strikes the gun forward, forcing the barrel into the man’s mouth, and pulls the trigger. She closes her eyes as a thick liquid drenches her face.

 

_Warm… It’s warm. I didn’t think it would be warm._ Tobin struggles against the full weight of the body as it lay on top of her.

 

_It should be cold. They’re dead._

 

Christen springs toward Tobin and grabs the back of the man’s shirt, pulling as Tobin pushes on his chest. They haul the body off of Tobin, pushing it to the side, face up. Tobin sits up, breathing hard and fast. She hurriedly brushes chunks of flesh and bone from her shirt and hair. Blood smears on her knuckles as she wipes blood from her eyelids. Christen watches, a pained expression on her face.

 

Tobin looks beside her at the dead - totally dead - man’s body. His face is a giant hole below the eyes; Tobin can see the ground through it. One eye is missing, the other hanging by a band of tissue. What’s left of his face is a mangled mess of flesh and gristle. Tobin feels sick to her stomach, but no bile rises in her throat.

 

Christen extends Tobin a hand. Tobin looks up at her, Christen’s expression softer but still troubled. Tobin swats her hand away, gets to her feet herself.

 

“Tobin…” Christen starts, but Tobin raises a hand, silencing her. She grits her teeth, steadying her breathing and trying to control the rage and hurt quaking through her body. She stares Christen dead in the eyes.

 

“You’re a fucking psycho,” Tobin says, sneering.

 

“Tobin, I’m-”

 

“NO! Shut up! I don’t care!” Tobin trembles, and Christen watches her, frowning.

 

“You don’t get to talk right now! You fucking… You fucking tried to kill me! You fucking kicked me! To the ground! Then pushed that fucking man! On top of me! On purpose! ‘I’m not doing this for you to die,’ THEN WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT FOR!?”

 

“FOR YOU TO GET A GODDAMN GRIP AND START REALIZING JUST WHAT THE FUCK THOSE THINGS ARE!” Tobin is taken aback by Christen’s tone and volume.

 

“Yeah! ‘It! Walkers!’ That’s what you fucking call them! Fucking dehumanizing!”

 

“Because they’re not human, Tobin! Not anymore!” Christen grows solemn, her voice cracking. “Why don’t you understand that?”

 

Tobin opens her mouth to respond, but stops, glancing at the body. “They’re dead, Christen, but they’re still human. I feel like my own humanity is being taken from me by hurting them! I don’t know what happened to make innocent people like this, but we don’t have to be so fucking _brutal_!” Christen glowers at her, eyes bright with anger. She strides over to the body and bends down, picking up the head by the hair and jerking it in Tobin’s direction.

 

“Does _this_ fucking look human to you!? The skin? The eyes? The blood around its mouth? Did it fucking look human when it was on top of you, flailing around like a dead fish? Did it look like a person to you _when it was trying to rip out your throat_?!”

 

“STOP! JUST STOP! JUST SHUT UP!” Tobin swipes at her eyes, trying to keep the tears at bay. “If you wanted to get back at me for what happened at the diner, you coulda done something a little less fucked up! I could’ve died!”

 

“I know, Tobin. I know,” Christen sighs. “I didn’t- I didn’t mean for that to happen. I didn’t intend for it to fall on you.”

 

Tobin rolls her eyes and laughs humorlessly. “And just _what_ was your intention, Christen?”

 

“I want you to see them for what they are: dangerous. Inhuman. They need to be put down.” Christen pauses, considering her next words. “I like to think of it as giving them mercy.”

 

Tobin looks down as she walks past Christen. She stops at the Sebring and leans against the hot metal exterior, folding her arms across her chest. Christen follows, stopping in front of Tobin.

 

“How is this so easy for you?” Tobin asks, voice barely above a whisper. “They’re people.”

 

“They _were_ people.”

 

Christen moves past Tobin and opens the back passenger door. She leans inside the car and grabs her bag, digging around inside. Tobin watches as Christen pulls out something that looks like a deck of cards but thicker. She tosses the item to Tobin and sits in the seat, legs dangling out the side. Tobin examines the item.

 

At first glance, it looks like a stack of cards about two decks thick, held together by a red rubber band. Tobin looks closer and finds that the top card isn’t a playing card at all: it’s a driver’s license. She unravels the rubber band and splays the licenses out like a playing hand, thumbing through them. _There’s gotta be like 50 of them here._ Tobin shoots Christen a confused look. Christen responds with a crooked half smile.

 

“That’s not even all of them.”

 

“What is this? Why do you have all of these IDs?”

 

“I’m not the heartless zombie hunter you think I am,” Christen replies. “I don’t get off by killing walkers. When I can, I’ll check the ones I kill for some form of ID; usually if it’s a quick kill or one-on-one. When there’s too many of them, I can’t stop and loot the bodies I’ve shot. And sometimes they don’t have anything.” She shrugs and looks down at her feet.

 

“I guess it’s my way of, I dunno, honoring them” Christen continues, “remembering that they _were_ people before this shit went down. Can’t have funerals for them. Collecting their IDs is, like, the only way to show that they were here. That they mattered. That they had lives.” Christen sighs, sullen, pulling the bandana around her head down on her neck and running her fingers through her hair.

 

Tobin looks at the IDs in her hands, sifting through them. _There’s so many from all over the States. This is amazing. I never would’ve thought to do something like this._ She looks back to Christen, who is tying her unruly curls back in a pony tail with the bandana. Tobin smiles, a fondness for Christen warming her chest.

 

“Tobin,” Christen says.

 

Tobin raises her brows, rearranging the IDs back into a stack.

 

“Tobin, I’m sorry. About that...man. I shouldn’t have done that. I could’ve, uh, taught you this lesson in a...less ‘fucked up’ manner,” Christen says, looking at Tobin, sincere regret on her face. “If you had died, and turned, I… I can’t...” She stops, staring past Tobin, eyes blank. Tobin smiles and moves toward Christen, placing a forgiving hand on her arm. Christen looks up at her and smiles.

 

“Ready to get going? I’ll drive. You look tired,” Tobin offers, wrapping the band around the IDs and tossing the stack to Christen. Christen furrows her brows, grinning wryly.

 

“Uhh, I dunno if I want you driving my baby…”

 

“Your baby? HAH! If the old man who owned this saw you whipping this car around, he’d die _again_ of a heart attack.” Christen giggles and sticks her tongue out at Tobin, rising from the seat and moving to the front passenger side. Tobin gives the man - the walker - one last parting glance. She frowns, wishing she could give him - it - something like Christen was doing, to give it some sense of dignity.

 

“Hey, Chris,” she shouts to the open passenger window. “Hand me the black hoodie on the floor.”

 

“You might need this,” Christen says, grabbing the hoodie and holding it out the window. “It can get cold at night, even in the summer.” Tobin shakes her head and takes it.

 

She approaches the body, holding the hoodie tight to her chest. She inhales the scent of the fabric. _It still smells sweet, just like you. You… you probably didn’t even… you probably didn’t…_ Tobin starts to choke up, closing her eyes to keep tears away. _This is my favorite hoodie._ She gently places the hoodie over the walker’s disfigured face, tucking it behind its head so the wind won’t blow it away. She bends down and runs her hands over its jean pockets, feeling something in one. Tobin reaches in and pulls out a brown leather wallet. She unfolds it and finds a license tucked in a transparent pocket.

 

_Hmm, Richard Medina. Yeah, I’d say you look like a Richard Medina._

 

Tobin stands up, license in hand, and walks back to the car. She climbs into the driver’s seat and hands the license to Christen.

 

“Richard Medina, born June 4th, 1972, from Reno, Nevada. Six foot two, 230 pounds, brown hair, hazel eyes,” Christen reads. “His license expired two years ago.”

 

“What a rebel, riding around with an expired license,” Tobin laughs, turning the key in the ignition. “Bet he never renewed his insurance, either.”

 

“I bet he’s been to every Metallica, Black Sabbath, and ACDC show this side of the Mississippi,” Christen jokes, strapping the seat belt over her chest. “And he could play every heavy metal song on Hard in Guitar Hero.”

 

“And he drank PBR with his buddies every night,” Tobin says, “sitting around playing poker on a small folding table in the garage, when he shoulda been watching the kids while his wife worked long nights at the 24-hour diner.” Christen bursts into laughter as Tobin drives off, leaving the twice-dead corpse of Richard Medina on the side of a backroad in Couldn’t Tell Ya, Nevada.

 


	6. I Wouldn't Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally hesitant to post this as a standalone chapter, but meh. It's a fluffy break from walkers.

_ Forever is a long time _

 

_ But I wouldn’t mind spending it by your side. _

 

 

Tobin blinks rapidly, her heavy eyelids fighting for a break. The clock on the radio reads 7:07, though Tobin isn’t sure if it’s correct or not. If it is, then the two left Richard Medina on the road roughly an hour and a half ago.  _ Highway hypnosis is real _ , Tobin thinks, yawning and shaking her head.  _ That, and staring at fuckin’ desert makes you wanna gouge your eyes out anyway.  _ Luckily she hasn’t seen a walker or weary hitchhiker since the brawl.

 

Christen sleeps in the seat beside Tobin, her flannel shirt draped over her torso like a blanket. She snores softly, her lips puckering as she breathes out. Tobin can’t help but glance over every couple minutes, smiling at her companion.  _ I’m so glad I found you,  _ she thinks as Christen shifts slightly, sliding lower into the seat.  _ Or, rather, I’m glad you found me. What are the odds of finding a cute girl to venture with? _

 

Tobin stares ahead, feeling weary, stepping on the gas pedal a little harder.  _ Please just show me something. It’s gonna get dark soon. I’ll settle for another creepy gas station.  _ Just as she’s about to pull over and coax Christen into sleeping in the back seat for the night, something other than a mountain range on the horizon comes into Tobin’s view.

 

“Chris! Chris, oh my god, Chris, wake up!” Tobin shakes Christen awake with her right hand, left hand controlling the steering wheel. Christen stirs and sits up, the plaid shirt slipping from her shoulders.

 

“Huh? What’s up?” she asks, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Tobin bounces in the seat like a hyper little kid.

 

“Look!” She points to the windshield. Christen strains her eyes to see what Tobin is pointing to. She throws her head back against the headrest, sighing contentedly.

 

“Fucking finally. A town. Civilization. I’m sick of staring at dirt.”

 

“God bless ‘Murica,” Tobin mutters, taking in the outline of buildings on the horizon. She slows to read a sign telling them what town they’re entering.

 

“Winnemucca? What the hell? How do you even pronounce that?” Christen swats Tobin in the arm.

 

“Don’t be insensitive; it’s probably Native. ‘Win-neh-muh-kuh?’ Maybe?” Tobin hums, focusing on the road.

 

The sun is setting, giving the sky a pink twilight glow. The duo speeds through the last stretch of desert and enters the small town.

 

They drive past several short buildings, no lights visible through any windows. The large business signs, no doubt normally illuminated neon, are dark. Tobin is surprised to see the single lane they’ve followed for so long has split into four, two lanes going each direction.  _ It’s no NYC, but it’s kinda cool. Very… Western? _

 

Tobin slows the car, peering out through the windshield and windows, taking in the scenery. The car crawls past a gas station,  _ Pump ‘n’ Save One Stop Market. _ The station sign claims this place has THE BEST GAS, PREM, NO LEAD, 1.50 REGULAR. Tobin snickers, pointing it out to Christen.

 

“Jesus Christ, how old is this place?” Tobin says, wrinkling her nose. “When the hell has gas ever been a dollar fifty a gallon?”

 

“I mean, the whole world is kinda frozen in time, but that gas station seems to have frozen a few decades ago,” Christen responds, eyes scanning their surroundings.

 

“Should we stop and check it out for some gas?” Tobin asks, checking the gas gauge. Christen suddenly yawns, stretching her arms over her head.

 

“Nah, we can hit one in the morning. I’m exhausted. I just wanna find a place to crash. Look, there’s plenty of gas stations around here.” Christen gestures past the windshield, several mom and pop gas stations in the vicinity.

 

“But that one has  _ the best _ gas,” Tobin says, chuckling. “Look at all these motels, too. I guess this is a tourist town? For what? Doesn’t seem to be much here.” Christen groans, folding her arms on her chest.

 

“Let’s use the motels as a last resort. I like breaking into houses.” Tobin shoots her a bewildered look.

 

“They have food. Water. Clothes. Basic necessities. Motels have a bed and that’s it.” Christen rolls her eyes. “Seriously, you won’t kill walkers  _ and _ you won’t raid houses. How have you made it this long?” Tobin laughs, driving past the Skyline Motel.

 

“Duly noted. I still have morals, despite the cessation of humanity. Though I will say, I do  _ not _ know why I’m still alive. Must be written in the stars.” Christen shakes her head, grinning.

 

“What’s your star sign?” she asks, watching as Tobin speeds up past the block of motels, filling stations, and small shops.

 

“Gemini.”

 

“Gross,” Christen jokes, frowning. “Can’t wait to meet both of your personalities.”

 

“What _ ever _ !” Tobin laughs. “Ooh, look! A casino! Feelin’ lucky?” She wiggles her eyebrows. Christen rolls her eyes and turns to the window.

 

The brilliant pink, purple, and orange swirls in the evening sky highlight the mountainous horizon. Tobin continues a steady pace through the town, looking around for streets to turn onto that lead into housing developments. She resists the urge to stop at a stoplight and turns left onto a one-way street. Tobin drives past apartment buildings, floral shops, delis, clothing stores.  _ Discount liquor, tobacco shops, bakery, jewelry… And seemingly no travelers.  _ As far as Tobin can tell, no people have been in town for a while. Cars are parked in front of stores, but there are no abandoned cars on the road.  _ Maybe everyone got out before things got bad? _

 

“Hey, Chris,” Tobin begins, “isn’t it a little weird that we haven’t seen any people? Or  _ walkers _ ?”

 

“Huh?” Christen asks, rubbing her eyes. Her eyelids are rimmed red, deep purple lines etched under her eyes.  _ She’s tired. I better find us a place fast. _

 

“It looks like there were hardly any people here. There’s cars, but no people, no walkers. Where did everyone go?”

 

“It’s a small town, Tobin,” Christen answers, irritation in her voice. “I can’t exactly look up the population of Winnemucca on my phone, but I would imagine it’s small.” Tobin nods, watching as Christen lays her head back against the headrest, closing her eyes and breathing evenly.  _ I guess I’m being paranoid. She  _ did _ say that most walkers are in the big cities. Better stay away from Vegas.  _ She decides to let Christen be and hits the gas pedal a little harder.

 

The town scenery passes by more quickly now, giving way to quaint houses along the streets. The sun has completely set, giving way to the luminous moon, creating an eerie ambience. The shine from the headlights guides Tobin through a neighborhood. As Christen sleeps, Tobin listens to her soft breaths, smiling.

 

She breaks at each house she passes, inspecting what’s visible of the outside.  _ I don’t know what to really look for… All these houses look the same.  _ Tobin glances over at Christen.  _ Mmm, I won’t wake her. This isn’t House Hunters, just pick one.  _ She pulls the car to the curb in front of a two-story house. There’s no car in the driveway, leading Tobin to believe the house is uninhabited. She looks to Christen, placing a hand on the woman’s thigh and patting it.

 

“Chris. Chris, I’m gonna go check out this house, okay? See if it’s clear,” she says lightly, rubbing Christen’s thigh. Christen moans and turns over on her side, curling against the door. Tobin turns the car off and steps out, grabbing the gun from her waistband. She scurries to the front door, gripping the gun in both hands.

 

The door is unlocked, and Tobin moves inside. She stands in what she assumes is the living room, but the room is pitch black except for a stream of moonlight pouring through a window. As her eyes adjust, she sees a staircase ahead of her. The outline of couches and chairs comes to view to her right.  _ I think the living room is to my right, maybe a kitchen to my- _

 

“Hey dumbass, didn’t think to bring a light?”

 

“JESUS FUCKING-” Tobin jumps, the hairs on her neck and arms standing straight up. Behind her stands Christen, holding a lantern. Christen turns the knob on the side, and the bulb in the center kindles. Tobin pats her chest, trying to catch her breath.

 

“I am holding a gun!” Tobin seethes, jerking the revolver in Christen’s face. “I thought you were asleep!” Christen pushes her aside and walks ahead, holding the lantern in front of her face. She has her backpack on along with a large duffel bag slung over one shoulder and Tobin’s bag on the other. 

“You picked a good place,” Christen says, amused. “I’m fucking starving. Looks like here’s the kitchen, eh?” She walks through an arched doorway to the left.

 

“Wait!” Tobin calls out. “What about the stuff in the car? The gas? The food? Is it okay to leave it out there? What if someone pops open the trunk and steals it? Did you lock the car? What if they have a crowbar and pry it open? What if…” Several unfortunate scenarios roll through Tobin’s mind as she stares through the open door at the car. The light from the lantern bounces back through the archway.

 

“You said there’s no one here,” Christen yells back. “It’s a ghost town. I’m sure the locals hauled ass outta here. If we get robbed, so be it. I’m too tired to care. I’m not carrying four 10 pound gas cans and 10 pound boxes of vegetables in here. This is just for the night.” Tobin sighs and closes the door, following Christen through the arch and into a kitchen.

 

Christen sits the lantern on an island in the middle of the room. Tobin takes a seat at a bar stool at the island, folding her arms on the countertop and resting her forehead on them. She hears Christen hunting through her bag and hears something smack the counter. The click of a pen brings Tobin’s curious head up, chin resting on her forearms. She observes Christen bent over a notebook, writing furiously.

 

“Just what the fuck are you doing?” Tobin inquires, eyebrows raised, grinning. The lantern casts a glow on Christen’s face, revealing her cheeks turning a bright pink.

 

“This is my planner,” she states matter-of-factly. “I need this to keep track of the days. Can’t rely on my iCalendar anymore. Never really did. This thing is… my bible, really.” Tobin giggles, watching Christen scribble something into a box.

 

“What are you writing?”

 

“Uh, what we did today,” Christen responds, eyes focused on the notebook. “Documenting that we both almost died today. Got some gas, food. Found a town. Staying in a house. This kinda serves as both a timekeeper and a journal.”

 

“Wow,” Tobin chuckles. “You are  _ so _ Type A, aren’t you?” Christen glares at Tobin, a shy smile playing on her lips.

 

“Hey, I’m chronicling the apocalypse from my point-of-view. This will be a best-seller one day.” She clicks the pen and closes the notebook, stuffing both back in her bag. Tobin nods, reaching for her own bag. She pulls out her camera and places it in front of Christen.

 

“Your book could use some pictures,” Tobin says. “This is my way of documentation. Though I haven’t used it much lately. Trying to save the charge.” Something unreadable flashes in Christen’s eyes.

 

“Well thank God we found each other,” Christen says, laughing as she turns away and begins rooting through cupboards. Tobin sits up straight, contemplating something. She furrows her brows, bites her bottom lip.

 

“Hey, Chris?” Christen cocks her head to the side.

 

“Do you know what day it is?” Tobin asks.

 

“The 29th,” Christen replies, studying a can of tomato soup.

 

“Of May?”

 

“Mhmm.”

 

“May 29th, huh,” Tobin mutters. “Heh. Wow.” Christen turns her body to face Tobin, leaning back against the sink counter, rolling the can in her hand.

 

“Does today mean something to you?” Tobin looks down at her folded hands, a small smile on her lips.

 

“Not really,” she says softly. “It’s my birthday, is all.” Christen straightens up, looking at Tobin seriously.

 

“Well shit, Rambo. That’s important! Why didn’t you say anything?” She starts opening all the cupboards, pushing boxed meals and cans aside. Tobin shrugs, embarrassed.

 

“I didn’t know what day it is,” Tobin admits, rubbing the back of her neck. “Besides, I don’t really care for birthdays. Never been a fan of the fussy celebration stuff.”

 

“Nonsense!” Christen barks. “Birthdays are special, especially post-apocalyptic birthdays. How old are you?”

 

“28,” Tobin mumbles sheepishly.

 

“Jackpot!” Christen sings, pulling a box from one cupboard and a large bottle from another. She spins around and plants both on the counter in front of Tobin. Tobin jerks back.

 

“Uhh, fudge brownies and vegetable oil?” Tobin questions, raising an eyebrow at her companion. Christen nods, smiling, and opens the box, removing a bag of mix.

 

“Have you noticed there’s no electricity?” Tobin quips, reading the instructions on the box. “Nor any eggs.  _ I _ wouldn’t use any eggs in the fridge, anyway.”

 

“Oh please. Who ever eats the actual  _ baked _ brownies? My sisters and I never made it past scraping the batter into the dish.” Her smile falters.

 

Christen grabs a large bowl from one of the cupboards and fishes a half empty water bottle from her bag. She empties the mix into the bowl along with water and oil. Tobin smiles as Christen grabs a fork and two spoons from a drawer and carries the bowl to the island. Christen stirs the ingredients together, and once the mix resembles thick, chocolatey pudding, she hands Tobin a spoon.

 

“Mangia! Bon appetit!” The two shovel big spoonfuls of the batter into their mouths. Tobin sighs, the creamy and sickeningly sweet dessert a delight to her tastebuds.  

 

“I hope we don’t get salmonella,” Tobin snorts, licking her spoon clean before diving in for more.

 

“No eggs, no illness,” Christen declares. “At least I hope so.”

 

“I’d rather die by rancid brownie batter over a walker ripping my throat out,” Tobin says. Christen laughs, lets her spoon linger in the batter. She stares Tobin right in the eyes. Tobin feels self-conscious, wiping the side of her mouth, staring back.

 

“Happy birthday, Tobin,” Christen says, a sweet smile on her lips. Tobin’s heart skips a beat, and she blushes deeply, averting her eyes.

 

“Uhh, th-thanks, Chris,” she stutters, swirling the batter around. Her face lights up, and she beckons Christen to come around the island.

 

“Come here,” Tobin says, patting the stool next to her. Christen nods and moves to sit next to Tobin. Tobin grabs her camera and slings her arm around Christen’s shoulders. Christen looks at her curiously.

 

“A picture,” Tobin clarifies. “This is a birthday I wanna remember.” Now Christen is the one blushing. She brushes a few stray strands of hair behind her ear.

 

“I’m sure I look awful, but I won’t argue.” Christen leans into Tobin’s embrace as Tobin turns the camera on. She holds it out at arm's length, lens facing the two of them, and leans her head against Christen’s.

 

“Smile,” she says. Christen flashes a beautiful smile, showing her perfect teeth. Tobin turns her head as the camera clicks and the flash goes off.

 

She knows the picture will come out as Christen smiling like an angel while Tobin’s head is cocked to the side, looking at Christen lovingly with a close-lipped smile, and she’s totally okay with that.

 

“Thank you,” Tobin smiles, turning the camera off and placing it back in her bag.

 

“Hey, I wanna see!” Christen reaches for the camera, but Tobin swats her hand away.

 

“You look fine, and I need to conserve the charge,” Tobin says, though she really didn’t want Christen to see and dislike the picture and make her take 10 more. Christen wrinkles her nose at Tobin and turns back to the brownie batter.

 

“Let’s finish this and go upstairs,” Christen says, bringing another spoonful to her mouth. “I hope this place has a decent bed.”

 

They finish the batter in record time and grab their items, Christen holding the lantern out in front of them and leading Tobin up the carpeted stairs.

 

The two stand at the entrance of a small hallway, closed doors on either side. Tobin grimaces, unsure if she wants to open any of them.

 

“Maybe we should just sleep downstairs,” she suggests. “We don’t know if any walkers or dead bodies are behind those doors.”

 

“I want a bed,” Christen insists, walking forward. “I won’t let a walker stand between me and a good night’s sleep.” Tobin sighs and follows her.

 

“I wonder which one is a master bedroom,” Tobin says, glancing back and forth between the doors. Christen points her a finger at each door.

 

“Eenie, meenie, miney, moe,” she says, grinning.

 

“Really?” Tobin says, rolling her eyes. “You make jokes when one wrong door could kill us? This is Russian Roulette: Apocalypse Edition.”

 

“Okay, here,” Christen hands Tobin the lantern. “Give me the gun. Stand at the door and hold the light, and I’ll open each door. Will that make you feel better?” Tobin nods, giving Christen the gun.

 

Tobin stands next to one of the doors, holding the lantern up. Christen holds the gun out in front of her and kicks the door open. Tobin looks at her as if to say  _ did you really have to do that.  _ Christen grins and peeks inside.

 

“A child’s room,” she says, ushering Tobin to the next door. She grips the doorknob and twists, pushing the door open. A bathroom, no bodies or gore to see. They cross to the other side of the hallway.

 

Christen opens the next door and sighs, stepping inside. Tobin peers in.

 

“Yes! A big bed! A big, soft bed that beckons me!” Christen drops the gun on the carpeted floor along with her bag and the duffel and pounces on the bed.

 

“The bed could be dirty, you know,” Tobin says, looking down the hallway at the two other doors they haven’t searched.

 

“I don’t care. I’m dirty. I haven’t showered in days. I’m tired.” She inhales the scent of the plush comforter. “It smells fine, like generic laundry detergent. I love it.”

 

“Come on Chris, we need to check the other rooms,” Tobin says. Christen groans.

 

“Tobin, the house is vacant. Even if there are walkers behind the other two doors, they can’t open them. Let’s just sleep.” She already sounds about half gone. Tobin looks back to the doors, then back to Christen on the bed.  _ The bed  _ does _ look really soft. And I _ am _ really tired.  _ She sighs and crosses into the room, closing the door behind her.

 

Lantern in hand, she looks around the room for a chair. She doesn’t see one, just the bed in the middle of the room, a window on either side, moonlight partially hidden by thin curtains. There’s a door on the left, ajar, revealing a closet. Tobin assumes the door on the right is a bathroom. There’s a small dresser along the wall next to Tobin. She decides to move it in front of the door, moving to the other side of it and pushing it until it barricades the door. She takes a lamp from the nightstand and sits it on the dresser.  _ If a walker pounds on the door or tries to open it, the lamp will fall and wake me.  _ She pauses.  _ Then again, the  _ end of the fucking world _ didn’t wake me. _

 

Tobin takes the gun from the floor and places it on the night stand, along with the lantern. She drops her bag in front of the stand and looks to the duffel at the foot of the bed.  _ What does Chris have in there?  _ She glances at Christen, curled up on her side atop the comforter, fast asleep. She bends down and crawls to the duffel. She fumbles with the zipper, the light from the lantern not quite reaching the floor. Unzipping the duffel slowly, she looks inside.  _ Jesus Christ, she’s packin’ some heat!  _ The bag is full of handguns of various sizes and models, plus several boxes of bullets.  _ Shit, where did she get all these?  _ Tobin zips the duffel shut and moves back to the bed. She sits on the edge and leans over to turn the lantern off.

 

Moonlight shines in enough to reflect off of the piece of jewelry around Tobin’s neck, reminding her of its presence. She touches the cross resting on her clavicle.  _ And deliver us from evil,  _ Tobin thinks, pushing herself onto the bed and laying on her side, facing Christen. Tobin’s eyes adjust, focusing on Christen’s closed eyes. She wants to count every long eyelash until she falls asleep.  _ She looks peaceful.  _ Tobin watches Christen’s chest rise and fall with every breath. One of her hands is tucked behind her head, the other resting on the bed in the space between them. She mimics Christen’s pose, placing her free hand on top of Christen’s. Tobin’s heart flutters, but the woman doesn’t stir. Tobin smiles, shifting forward until her forehead rests against Christen’s. She closes her eyes, sleep pulling her under like the waves in a stormy sea.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm workin' on chap 7! Bug me on Tumblr to update more regularly: defessus-puer.tumblr.com


	7. Whoever She Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why does it literally take me a month to write one freaking chapter? In my defense, this past month has been. A lot. Just a lot of crap happening in my life. Regardless, here is the next chapter.  
> I know, it's really long, I'm sorry for that! It's good content, though! (I think...) I wanted to get into backstory with this chapter, so it's a lot of dialogue. I mean, what else are you supposed to do when it's just you and someone you met 3 days ago in a car with no radio?  
> So yeah, I hope y'all like this!

_Whoever she may be_

_One thing’s for sure_

_You don’t have to worry._

 

“Well… this is disheartening.”

 

Tobin and Christen stare dejectedly at a Nevada road map Christen spread out on the checkout counter of Backbone Gas Station & Food Mart.

  

“I thought we were going west,” Tobin sighs, wrinkling her nose and peering closer to the crinkled paper. “We musta been here -” She draws a circle with her finger around the upper left portion of the state. “ - and now we’re here.” She slides the finger down and stops on the dot labeled _Winnemucca_.

 

“Welp, we’ve been driving south,” Christen says, tracing her finger down a state highway line. “Even I’ll admit I’m directionally challenged.”

 

“What road were we on?” Tobin asks, running her finger along a series of overlapping state highways. “None of these are labeled, but I think we were on one of ‘em. We didn’t hit any of these small towns.” She stops and glances at Christen.

 

“Unless,” Tobin begins, “Did _you_ hit any of these towns before you found me?” Christen chews her bottom lip, staring at the map.

 

“Yeah, probably,” Christen replies. “I think I went through these northern towns…” She points to three town dots. “I _was_ going west before I found your sorry ass.” Christen grins as Tobin playfully smacks her arm.

 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Look at this,” Tobin says, referencing the legend at the bottom of the map. “Interstate highway. Looks like I-80 runs through Nevada, and Winnemucca sits right on it.” She traces her finger along the interstate line, from Winnemucca to Reno. Tobin grimaces and flips the map over, revealing a United States road map. Christen leans in and finds where Interstate 80 leaves Nevada.

 

“Yes!” Christen says, smiling. “This highway goes into California. And it looks like it intersects with another interstate that will take us to L.A.” Tobin grins as Christen begins to shake animatedly. Tobin's smile falters, however, as her eyes follow the route.

 

“You do realize that this highway takes us through, like, five major cities, right?” Tobin says, pointing to Reno. Christen’s face falls.

 

“Ah shit,” she grumbles, leaning into the counter and pressing her forehead into the heel of her hand. Her eyes follow every squiggly line on the map, trying to decipher a different route. Christen sighs and flips the map back onto the Nevada state side.

 

“Whatever, we’ll just have to brave the storm,” she asserts, finger resting on I-80 on the map. “This is our only chance of getting to L.A. in a timely manner. I’m not fucking with back roads and making a couple days trip into a month long endeavor.” She glances at Tobin, worry etched into the wrinkles of her forehead. Christen turns back to the map.

 

“Reno… Sacramento…” She points to each small black dot labeling the cities. “We may just bypass Fresno… Pasadena… Then Los Angeles. They _are_ big cities. There _will_ be walkers - a fuckton of ‘em. We can manage. We have to.”

 

Christen folds the map into its original brochure state and places it in her back pocket. She kneels down and unzips the duffel bag at her feet. She pulls it open, revealing the litter of handguns and bullet boxes Tobin had seen the night before. Tobin attempts to feign surprise at the contents of the bag, letting her mouth hang wide open and her eyebrows raise. Christen glares at her.

 

“Don’t even try me, you little shit,” she says, eyes narrowed. “I heard you rummaging through this bag last night. Like what you see?” Tobin blushes and nervously scratches the back of her head.

 

“I was curious,” Tobin pouts, folding her arms across her chest. “Where did you even get this heavy artillery? Were you an army officer pre-apocalypse?” Christen throws her head back laughing.

 

“Hell no,” she coughs out between laughs. “We can thank Chicago PD for this one.” Tobin watches her, knitted eyebrows demanding further explanation.

 

“What? Like it’s weird to take advantage of a chaotic situation and raid the police department? They were kinda busy, killing walkers and…” She cringes. “...innocent civilians. They killed anyone who was unfortunate enough to be in the streets during the outbreak. Bastards. I took their shit. Karma.”

 

Christen takes a revolver from the bag and slides it into the holster on her jeans. She digs through to the bottom, pushing handguns and bullet boxes aside. Tobin notices an eyepiece visible among the handguns, and her mouth literally falls open.

 

“A sniper rifle!? Jesus Christ!” Tobin says, staring at Christen. Christen shrugs.

 

“I don’t know how to use it,” Christen admits, shuffling the guns around and zipping the duffel. “So I keep it on the bottom. Handguns are easier. My dad taught me how to use one. That’s his signature Glock.” She points to the revolver tucked into Tobin’s jeans. Tobin laughs.

 

“I don’t know the first thing about guns. You coulda just made up a name and caliber and I woulda believed you,” Tobin says, grabbing Christen’s hand to help her up.

 

“So…” Christen begins, standing straight and slinging the duffel over her shoulder. “I-80 it is, then?” Tobin sighs and nods, not sure what else they could do to bypass walker-ridden big cities. Tobin looks around the Food Mart, taking in the undisturbed inventory of cheap snacks, sodas, and other travel necessities.

 

“We should probably grab a few things,” Tobin says, swinging her bag over her shoulder. Christen holds her hand to her heart and lets her mouth hang open.

 

“Oh my goodness. Are you suggesting we _steal_ from a small mom n’ pop mini mart? Tobin, I am appalled.” Christen shakes her head.

 

“Eat shit,” Tobin spits back. “You’re the one who said there are no more rules.” Christen wrinkles her nose and sticks her tongue out at Tobin, then turns toward a display case of assorted chocolate bars. Tobin grins and leans on the counter, craning her neck to observe the stock behind the register.

 

Her smile drops as her eyes land on shelves stocked with various types of alcohol. Her eyes dart between the shelves, finding her favorite brands of whiskey and rum. Tobin’s pulse increases, the blood rush pounding in her ears, blocking everything else out. _I want it. I want it. I need it. I haven’t had a drink in so long._ Tobin leans into the counter, her shaking hands rattling against the wood. A single bead of sweat trails down her face. _I want it so bad. Fuck food, I just want a bottle of Jack!_

 

Tobin is about to climb onto the counter when she glances at Christen, staring at her from a few feet away. Christen’s brows are furrowed, jaw clenched, watching Tobin with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. Tobin swallows a thick glob of saliva caught in her throat and averts her gaze. She refuses to look up past the counter, instead turning her focus to a small display of Jack Links beef jerky set up in front of the cash register.

 

_I don’t want Christen to know about that part of me. I’m not that person right now. I’ve been sober for a few weeks, thanks to the world fucking ending. I need to stay this way. I don’t need the alcohol._ Tobin breathes out slowly, trying to calm her shaky hands. She reaches toward the jerky display.

 

“Fuck yeah! Beef jerky!” Tobin says, grabbing a few packs and jamming them into her bag. Christen continues watching her, eyes narrowed.

 

The two bustle around the small shop, grabbing small snacks and water bottles and other odds and ends: batteries, pens, painkillers, cigarette lighters. In each aisle, Tobin carelessly grabs whatever she can rip open and pour into her mouth, presently a bag of salted sunflower seeds. _I feel like a caveman_ , she thinks, munching on a Snickers bar as she enters an aisle stocked with canned pasta, canned meat, and soup. _Holy shit, real food!_

 

“Chris! Canned food!” Tobin shouts, dropping her half-eaten Snickers and falling to her knees in front of the shelves. She grabs her bag from her back and gathers several cans. “We’re gonna need another bag, mine’s almost full.” Tobin opens a can of Campbell’s beef stew and brings it to her nose, sniffing the contents. She shrugs and brings the can to her mouth, only a trickle of broth spilling onto her tongue.

 

Christen appears behind Tobin, holding out a drawstring bag and shaking her head.

 

“Really?” Christen says, observing the litter of opened candy and nut packs trailing Tobin on the floor. “You act like you _didn’t_ just eat half a box of cereal before we got here.”

 

“Yeah,” Tobin replies, scooping the cold stew with her fingers and eating from her hand. “Half a box of _plain_ Cheerios with no milk or sugar.”

 

“Here,” Christen says, handing the bag to Tobin. “Only take smaller stuff - tuna, those Chef Boyardee things, fruit cups. We need to head out soon.” Tobin nods, wipes her hand on the side of her shirt, and grabs the requested items from the shelf. She pulls the full drawstring bag shut, zips her own orange bag, and slings both over her shoulder. _This will last us awhile,_ she thinks, smiling as she walks toward where Christen stands, studying the soda case.

 

“Do you think this stuff spoils?” Christen asks, holding up a can of Monster Java.

 

“I wouldn’t wanna find out,” Tobin responds. “Don’t wanna have the shits on the road.” Christen wrinkles her nose and nods, putting the can back in the warm case.

 

“You ready?” Christen asks, eyeing Tobin’s bags. Tobin nods, shooting her a thumbs-up, a Slim Jim hanging from her mouth as she chews. Christen chuckles and heads for the door.

 

Tobin pauses at the checkout counter, scrutinizing the shelves once again. She bites her bottom lip, eyes scanning the labels on the bottles. She wants more than anything to hop the counter and grab as many bottles of Jim Beam as she can stomach and ride out the rest of the apocalypse dead-ass drunk. It’s what she always does when things get rough: run from reality and drink herself blind. Why venture to southern California when she can hole herself up in Ma and Pa’s convenient store in Bum Fuck, Nevada with at least a decade’s supply of alcohol (and a few month’s worth of beef jerky)?

 

Tobin turns to look at Christen, who is watching Tobin closely, holding the door open. Glimmering sunbeams stream in, bathing Christen’s silhouette in golden light. She smiles warmly at Tobin, though her eyes betray concern. _A damn angel. She looks like a damn angel, standin’ there like that._ Tobin blinks. _Yeah,_ that’s _why you’re going to California. She’s the reason for you to keep going._ Tobin glances back at the rows of bottles - old friends and miserable company that taunt her. _Alcoholism be damned. I’m gonna make it through this shit alive and sober. No more pity partying, Heath. You’re on a mission._ She turns and gives Christen an assured nod as she passes through the open door and into the sunlight.

 

The sun’s rays bore into Tobin’s skin, no clouds in the sky to offer protection. Even the short walk to the car has beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead. The two bags on her back are heavy and cling to her body, rubbing against her sweat-soaked shirt and irritating the skin. She doesn’t want to verbally complain, though; a quick glimpse at Christen’s stone expression makes Tobin feel silly for even allowing herself to be annoyed by such trivial inconveniences. Christen _is_ carrying two bags full of rations plus a duffel of weapons, after all.

 

Christen unlocks the Sebring, and the two unload the bags into the back seat. Tobin slams the door shut and looks at the road ahead, bringing her hand to her eyes.

 

“I-80!” she shouts to Christen, who is already in the driver’s seat and starting the engine. “That sign says I-80 is up ahead. I guess we just follow the road we’ve been on and get off at an exit.” Tobin climbs into the passenger seat and points to the red and blue interstate sign posted on the road a few shops down.

 

“I-80 it is then,” Christen says, pulling the car away from the curb and onto the road. “Reno, here we come, whether we like it or not.”

 

_Ugh, that’s right. We have to go through Reno before we even enter California._ Tobin leans back into the seat and crosses her arms over her chest, watching the small town shops pass by through the window. The dry Nevada heat feels smothering, the air in the car thick. Tobin eyes the air controls under the radio.

 

“Can we turn the AC on? I’m dyin’ here,” Tobin says, reaching out to push the A/C button. Christen slaps her hand.

 

“And waste the gas? No way. Put down the window,” Christen replies, lowering her own window. “I would put the top down, but I don’t want to burn my scalp. Again.” She grimaces and replaces both hands on the steering wheel, focused on the road. Tobin rolls her eyes and lowers her window completely. Hot wind sweeps through the car, though it’s better than still, stifling air. Tobin reaches in the back for her bag, unzipping it enough to pull out a water bottle. She turns back around and uncaps it, takes a swig, and leans into the door, elbow resting out the window.

 

Shop buildings become fewer and far between the further out they drive, replaced by shoddy shacks and abandoned warehouses. The land turns to rugged rolling hills bordering the Sierra mountain range, always visible yet distant. Tobin yawns and rests her chin on her arm. She slept well the night before, but stress torments her body and fatigues her. Tobin doesn’t know what to expect of the interstate highway, but every scenario she paints in her mind isn’t pretty or convenient. She imagines the highway cluttered with bodies and stray limbs for miles, bones crunching under the tires as they drive over the dead. _Flesh and guts and shit would get stuck in the tires, end up in the engine, stall the car…_ What could be worse than dead body barricades? Living walkers, hundreds of them, marching toward California in their signature lazy, decrepit stride. _They would see us, and that would be it. We’d be dead. Walker food. They’d rip us apart._

 

Tobin is shaken from her thoughts as Christen veers the car off the main road and onto a ramp. Tobin is just able to see the road sign reading Interstate 80 before Christen accelerates, and she sits up straight, looking ahead as they merge onto the highway. Her chest tightens, fearing what's ahead.

 

The car races forward onto smooth flat pavement, no hurdles in sight.

 

Tobin doesn’t relax.

 

_Where are they? The walkers. The blockade of walking dead._ Tobin leans forward, intently watching the stretch of road. She runs her tongue over her dry cracked lips. _Don’t get your hopes up. They gotta be here._

 

They’re not. Tobin doesn’t see a single walker limping on the side of the highway. No wall of walkers, no decaying bodies, not even a single broken-down minivan; just endless road extending into the horizon. Tobin lets out a long sigh she didn’t even know she was holding.

 

Christen looks at Tobin questioningly. “You okay there, bud?” Tobin turns toward her, suddenly aware that she’s gripping the door with one hand and the plush seat with the other, every muscle in her body clenched.

 

“Uh, yeah, all good here,” Tobin responds, relaxing her arms slightly and moving her hands to her lap. She stares down at her hands, fidgeting with her fingers, not quite sure what to do with the remaining nervous energy. The plastic water bottle crackles in her grip, so she places it on the seat between her thighs. Christen watches from the corners of her eyes.

 

“Tobin, what’s wrong?” Tobin turns toward Christen, catching her eyes staring right into Tobin’s. Christen’s brows are pushed together in concern. Tobin gives her a small smile.

 

“Uh, eyes on the road, please,” Tobin says. Christen rolls her eyes and turns back to the road.

 

“Yeah, ‘cause there’s so much traffic to pay attention to. So many other drivers I gotta watch,” Christen says. “Seriously, what’s bothering you?” Tobin interlaces her fingers together, cracking her knuckles. She doesn’t want to cause concern, and she’s never been good at opening up and voicing her thoughts and feelings.

 

“I dunno,” Tobin begins. “I just- this seems too easy, Chris. There was nothing blocking the road, the exit, this highway. No abandoned cars. I expected a wall of walkers to be following the path. Car accidents, traffic, dead bodies, _anything_ piled up on this road preventing us from cruising into California in a shiny red convertible like we’re in fucking Fast and Furious!” Christen glances at Tobin, eyebrows raised, stifling a grin. Tobin blushes and rubs the back of her neck.

 

“I’ve seen my fair share of zombie movies to know that something seems off,” Tobin continues, placing her restless hands on her knees. “Where were the people in Winnemucca? Where did they go? There should be cars piled up on this highway leading into California because that’s where some people would have gone. That’s what should have happened. Yet here we are -” She gestures to the road. “Rolling along I-80 as if we’re the only ones who left Nevada. It doesn’t make sense.” Tobin leans back into the seat, more relaxed now that she expressed her unease to Christen, and folds her arms across her chest.

 

Christen purses her lips and says nothing.

 

A highway information sign, planted in dry brown grass just beyond the shoulder of the road, reads that RENO is 59 MILES away. Tobin watches the ground continuously slip past the car, can see the heat rising from the black macadam in thick waves. What else is there to look at out here? She thought staring at a neverending dirt road in the desert was bad, but interstate highways aren’t any more glamorous. And Christen isn’t very helpful in the way of conversation at the moment.

 

_She knows I’m right. She has nothing to say because she feels it too._

 

The dry heat circulating through the car and the sunlight bouncing off the gloss exterior of the hood right into Tobin’s eyes is irritating, but not as irritating as Christen’s silence. Christen’s eyes are trained on the road, her face betraying no emotion, though she chews her bottom lip as if in deep thought. Tobin rubs the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes, waiting for Christen to say something. _Tell me I’m being paranoid or stupid or something. Say_ anything _, don’t just sit there,_ Tobin thinks, stealing a glance at Christen.

 

Christen’s head is slightly turned, staring out the left corner of the windshield, her mouth ajar. Tobin bends forward and peers past Christen’s head, dark curls tied back loosely with the handkerchief.

 

“Holy shit,” Tobin whispers.

 

The opposing highway of Interstate 80 is jammed with vehicles, both lanes packed bumper to bumper. Even the shoulder is congested, barred with the cars of innocent people desperate to get the hell out of California by any means necessary. Minivans, trucks, SUVs, even a few sports cars, all parts of a haunting picture of humanity’s reaction to calamity. _Pack your shit, pack your kids, get the car, we’re going east._ Under any other circumstance, this highway would not be so full, contributing to the eeriness factor. Christen hasn’t stopped driving while Tobin stares past her, and this buildup still seems to go on for miles.

 

And yet, the most horrifying piece of the puzzle, the maximum eeriness factor, is inside the cars themselves. Tobin doesn’t have her glasses on - didn’t even think to toss them into her bag, but she sure remembered her useless wallet and keys - but she can see that every car stopped on the two-lane highway is unoccupied. Not so much as a rotting corpse in the driver’s seat.

 

And as far as Tobin can tell, there are no walkers roaming around the cars nor in the strip of grass between the highways.

 

_Where are the people? Where are the walkers?_

 

_Where’d everyone go?_

 

“Does that make you feel better?” Christen says, piercing green eyes locked onto Tobin’s.

 

“Not at all,” Tobin murmurs, shaking her head slowly, breaking eye contact to look back at the crowd.

 

“Let’s just. Not talk about that, then,” Christen offers, turning back to the road and gripping the steering wheel tighter. Tobin nods, though she can’t will herself to avert her gaze.

 

An indescribable sadness floods through Tobin as they continue on the road. Her emotions, a mix of sympathy, anger, helplessness, confusion, and forlorn swirl in her chest, a heavy, strangling sensation. She would feel better if there were at least bodies in the vehicles or walkers stalking about, to show that there were once people occupying those vehicles. For all she knows, a UFO could’ve come and swept them away. Or Christ could’ve come back and taken the good people to Heaven, leaving only their earthly possessions behind with no bodily trace, the premise of those “Left Behind” movies. _Am I not worthy of being taken to Heaven? Of course not, Tobin! You’re a selfish drunk womanizer who stopped going to church years ago. Who would let you in?_

 

“So…” Christen breaks the crushing silence, raising her brows and dragging out the last syllable. “When do I get to unlock your tragic backstory?” She glances at Tobin, grinning. Tobin furrows her brows and smiles.

 

“My tragic backstory?” Tobin says. “I don’t think I have one to tell you.”

 

“Sure you do,” Christen asserts. “Everyone does. And you seem like the brooding, mysterious, aloof type, so your story has to be good.”

 

Tobin turns to the window, thinking. _My “tragic backstory?” What’s she asking? Does she want to know about my past? Who I am? What does she want to know?_

 

_How much am I willing to tell her?_

 

Tobin snickers. “Why are you turning the attention on _me_ ? What about _your_ tragic backstory, Christen?” She turns back to Christen, watching her carefully. Christen smiles.

 

“You can ask me anything,” Christen replies. “I’m an open book. There’s not much to tell, though.” She rests one hand in her lap, the other holding the bottom of the steering wheel.

 

“How about this,” Tobin begins. “We can play, like, a modified 20 Questions. I get to ask you 10 questions, and you get to ask me 10 questions. Sound fair?”

 

Christen nods. “Sounds fair. Do we wanna ask all 10 first, or go, uh, back and forth?”

 

“Back and forth is fine,” Tobin says.

 

“Okay, you go first,” Christen says. “What burning and intrusive questions do you have for me?”

 

“Hmmm,” Tobin hums, bringing her hand to her face, resting her chin in the curve between her thumb and index fingers, mocking deep thought. “What’s your middle name?”

 

Christen throws her head back, laughing. “Really? That’s your first burning question?” She chuckles. “Well, it _is_ intrusive. My middle name is Annemarie.”

 

“Christen Annemarie,” Tobin says. “That’s… really gay.” Christen wrinkles her nose.

 

_“You’re_ gay!” Christen scoffs, scowling at Tobin.

 

“You’re right,” Tobin laughs.

 

“Well, there goes _my_ first question,” Christen says. “Now I have to think of another one!”

 

Tobin raises her brows, watching Christen curiously. “You were gonna inquire about my sexual orientation? Nosy much?” Christen giggles nervously and blushes.

 

“Well, I wanted to know if I had the misfortune of partnering up with an annoying straight girl in the aftermath of the Zombie Plague,” Christen says, watching the road. “Though I didn’t have to awkwardly ask, you sorta indirectly outed yourself. I kinda figured you were, anyway.” Tobin chews on her bottom lip. _Does this mean… Is Christen gay? She doesn’t really_ look _gay. Then again…_

 

“Do I look gay?” Tobin asks earnestly. Her eyes widen. _Shit, that wasn’t supposed to be out loud!_

 

“Is that your second question for me?” Christen replies, grinning. She glances at Tobin, who crosses her arms over her chest and lowers her head, trying to hide her blush.

 

“No,” Tobin mumbles. “Ask me another question.”

 

 “What’s _your_ middle name?” Christen asks. “It’s only fair, since you know mine.”

 

“Powell,” Tobin responds. “Tobin Powell Heath.” Christen turns her head to look at Tobin, and something unreadable flashes in her eyes. Her eyes pierce Tobin a little too long for an acknowledging glance. A strange smile tugs at her lips. Tobin furrows her brows.

 

“What?” Tobin asks defensively. Christen smiles and laughs.

 

“‘Powell’ sounds like a sound you’d see in a jagged-edged action bubble in a superhero comic,” Christen says. “Like, if Superman just punched someone in the face, and POWELL! in big red letters.” She brings her hand to her mouth and snickers.

 

“It’s my mother’s maiden name,” Tobin says, rolling her eyes. “Next question. What did you do pre-Zombie Plague? Like, what was your job?”

 

“Ah hahaaaaa, that’s a good question, actually,” Christen replies. “Um. I guess you could say I was a freelance fine artist. I didn’t really work _for_ anyone, but I had a lot of clients. I would do pretty much anything for private clients, but I prefer painting. I would paint murals on buildings for the city’s art initiative. Chicago is a pretty artsy city; that’s why I moved there.” She glances at Tobin, who watches her attentively. Christen blushes. “Uh, does that answer your question?” Tobin nods and smiles.

 

“Don’t count this as question three, but what media do you like to use? I, uh, I like painting and stuff, too,” Tobin says. She thinks about the paint tubes and charcoal sticks she left behind on her coffee table back in her Portland apartment. Christen smiles wide and her eyes light up.

 

“Watercolors are my favorite paint. Gouache is fun to mess around with, too. Acrylics are easiest and I guess my best work is done with them. I hate oil paint! The shit is sticky and doesn’t mix well, and turpentine makes my head dizzy. I’ll perfect it eventually. I don’t want to shy away from any type of medium. I want to be a versatile artist. I love pen-and-ink, pastels, pencil sketching, printmaking, charcoal…” Christen talks animatedly, gripping the steering wheel as she shakes with excitement. It’s really cute, and Tobin can’t help smiling like an idiot. Christen turns to Tobin and blushes hard.

 

“Sorry, got a little carried away there,” Christen says.

 

“No, it’s cool,” Tobin assures her. “I like… most of the things you said. I’ve always hated watercolors, though. I can’t control them, they run all over the paper or canvas. My old professors would call them ‘a terribly stubborn beast to tame.’ And oil paints are the devil, but they’re fun. One time, I think in, like, sophomore Studio Art, we were supposed to be working with acrylics, and my dumb ass grabbed oil paints without realizing it, and I made a giant mess of my canvas and couldn’t figure out why my paints weren’t mixing. My professor came to check my progress, and was mortified at my piece.” Tobin laughs heartily. “I mean, it was basically a giant black hole on gesso.” Christen is laughing hard, and Tobin joins her, only slightly embarrassed to tell her tragic tale to a professional artist.

 

“Well, that certainly leads to my next question for you, what _you_ did for a living. I’m guessing you weren’t a professional oil painter?” Christen says, smiling wide.

 

“Certainly not,” Tobin answers, chuckling. She glances at the backseat, her orange bag leaning against Christen’s. The outline of her camera presses against the fabric. Tobin takes another drink from her water bottle and replaces it between her thighs.

 

“I’m a photographer,” Tobin continues. “I do freelance work, but I also work - _worked_ \- for a studio downtown. Kinda did whatever. Didn’t much like doing family photos. I got to photograph a lot of gay weddings, props to Portland and Obama.” Tobin grins. Christen turns to her and smiles.

 

“What kind of things do you like to photograph?” Christen asks. Tobin chews on her bottom lip, fingers picking at her cuticles.

 

“Weddings aren’t bad. Sometimes pet photos were fun, if the owner wasn’t prissy and precise. Often I would get invited to clubs and bars to photograph the people, DJs, bands, and the like. Free drinks and plenty of hot girls.” Tobin side-eyes Christen, hoping for a reaction from her. Christen nods slowly, brows raised and mouth tightly closed.

 

“Aside from photographing hot female DJs in gay clubs,” Tobin says, flashing a shit-eating grin. “I just… I like photographing life. City lights, the sunset skyline, people having a good time. I want to capture the beauty in the world, and the moments people won’t always remember. Now, with what little charge my Canon has left, I capture the walkers, what’s left of the cities, the rotting corpses. ‘Cause it matters. This isn’t something I want to remember, but it’s something anyone who survived will never forget.”

 

The air grows solemn, reality rearing its ugly head and making its presence known. This isn’t some fun west coast road trip among lifelong friends. Tobin has known Christen for three days, the only survivor Tobin has seen for miles. And they’re going to California to find Christen’s family, something Tobin knows is very unlikely. Even more unlikely to find them alive.

 

She would never say that to Christen, though. _I think the prospect of finding her family is the only thing keeping her going._

 

“Well, that was deep,” Christen says, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. “Do you… do you wanna keep playing? The question game?” Tobin looks past Christen to the opposite highway again. She hasn’t been counting the mile markers, she doesn’t know how far out they are, but the lanes are still crowded, and the sight makes Tobin’s stomach churn.

 

“Do you have any pets?” Tobin asks, changing her focus to Christen’s face. Christen smiles instantly, thin pink lips bordering perfect teeth.

 

“I have two dogs, Morena and Khaleesi. I love them so much, they’re my best friends.” Christen’s smile falters, the passionate spark leaving her eyes. “I couldn’t bring them to Chicago. They live with my parents.” She doesn’t have to say what Tobin knows she’s thinking. _Please let the damn dogs be alive. I haven’t seen any zombie movies where the damn dog lives._

 

“What about you? Pets?” Christen asks, voice slightly higher than normal. She continues tapping her fingertips on the steering wheel. The sound makes Tobin think of stormy summer nights in Portland, the rain beating gently against her bedroom window, lulling her to sleep.

 

“Hah, no, I don’t have any pets,” Tobin says. “I can barely remember to feed myself, let alone an animal.” Christen offers a half smile, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

 

“What about family? Do you live near them? Do you have siblings?” Christen asks, almost frantically. She looks at Tobin expectantly, willing Tobin to answer. To keep Christen occupied, to keep her mind from going places it shouldn’t go. Tobin smiles softly at her.

 

_It’s my turn to ask a question, but she’s almost at her breaking point. Guess I shouldn’t have brought up pets; thought it was an innocent question. Just keep talking. Distract her._

 

“My family lives in New Jersey. My parents are divorced. I have a younger brother and two older sisters. We’re all pretty close, I guess. I’m closer to my mom than my dad, I guess. She’s always supported me in my life choices. I kinda disappointed my dad with the photography career.” Tobin feels a pull in her heartstrings. _Dumbass, don’t go making yourself sad. You’re gonna make Christen sad, too!_

 

“Can I ask why?” Christen says. “And why did you move all the way to the west coast by yourself?” She pauses and looks to Tobin, frowning slightly. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be prying. If you don’t wanna go into detail about family matters, I understand.”

 

“Nah, it’s fine,” Tobin says. “Photography was always a hobby my brother and I shared. That, and soccer. Those things helped us, I dunno, relate to each other, I guess. But photography was Jeffrey’s _talent_ , while I was also some soccer prodigy.” She rolls her eyes. “I played soccer my whole life: Pre-K to senior year, and played on my college team. After graduation, dad wanted me to go pro, and I did. For several years, all over the country and for foreign teams. I eventually moved out to Portland to play on their team. Played one season and decided to quit. Not because I couldn’t keep up, but because… I spent most of my young life playing soccer, and I couldn’t see myself doing it into my late 30s.” Tobin pauses, taking a deep breath and contemplating her next words.

 

“For the first time in my life, after moving to Portland, I spent more time with my camera than I did with a ball at my feet. I valued time spent with the creative and artsy people I met downtown more than I valued my teammates. And it showed on the field. So I did myself and everyone a favor and quit. I still like soccer, still like to kick the ball around. I think… sometimes I think I fucked up. I think maybe I got sucked into the party scene too much.” She pauses. “But that’s a can of worms for another Dr. Phil special.”

 

“We all have skeletons in our closets,” Christen says, smiling reassuringly at Tobin. Tobin nods, and sighs. She bites her lip, not sure if she should say what she wants to.

 

“I wanted to ask you about your family, too, but if that’s too painful to talk about…” Tobin says, watching Christen carefully for a pained reaction.

 

“No, it’s not!” Christen asserts, shaking her head. Her fingers grip the steering wheel and she pushes harder on the gas, jerking the car forward and causing Tobin to slam back into the seat. “It’s not painful because I’m gonna find them. They’re still alive.” Christen sighs deeply, but her stance is tense, as though she doesn’t completely believe what she said.

 

“Okay,” Tobin says, offering a gentle smile. “Tell me about your family. You said you have sisters?”

 

Christen perks up immediately. “Yeah! One younger and one older. Channing and Tyler. We’re best friends. I love them more than anything.” She pauses, takes a deep breath. “I couldn’t live without them.” Her voice cracks. She blinks rapidly, chewing on her bottom lip.

 

“Chris…” Tobin says, wincing at Christen’s discomfort.

 

“Um…” Christen swipes at her eyes. “My parents live in Palos Verdes. That’s where I grew up. My dad is a cop. I know, like, the basics about guns and shooting thanks to him. Always wanted to make sure his girls knew how to protect themselves. Mom was a stay-at-home mom and an artist. Still is an artist. She’s the reason I’m so passionate about art. She supported me completely in anything I wanted to do. I think she wanted me to be a ceramics artist like she is, but I’ve always preferred painting.” She chuckles and her shoulders slump. Her hands fall back to the bottom of the steering wheel, holding it loosely, and she eases up on the gas.

 

The late afternoon sun flashes on Christen’s face, highlighting the moisture clinging to her eyelashes. She blinks, and a single tear trails down her right cheek. She stares ahead at the road, though her eyes seem unfocused. Her lips part slightly, the corners of her mouth turned upward in a small smile. Tobin reaches over and places a gentle hand on Christen’s arm, breaking Christen’s trance.

 

“Your parents sound great,” Tobin says, smiling warmly. “I can’t wait to meet them.” Christen turns to face Tobin and returns a smile. Her eyes sparkle, the gray in the irises streaking through the green, surrounding the pupil like the crown of the sun. The wind whips the loose hairs around her face, tempting Tobin to reach out and tuck them behind Christen’s ears.  

 

_God, she’s beautiful_ , Tobin thinks, her cheeks aflame as her eyes stay locked with Christen’s. _I can’t imagine what her sisters look like. Or her mom, for that matter. Her dad is probably some big scary buff dude who sits on their front porch with a shotgun on his lap, shooting at anyone who tries to court his little girl._

 

“Oh shit!”

 

The car drifts from the left lane onto the small shoulder between the road and the grass strip. Christen is the one to break the stare, jerking the wheel to the right and facing the road once more. Tobin’s eyes linger a moment longer, until Christen catches her out of the corners of her eyes. Tobin averts her gaze and shakes her head. _Why are you so awkward right now? Get a grip, dude!_

 

“Alright, next question,” Tobin says, rubbing her hands together. She grins at Christen mischievously. “What would you be doing right now if we weren’t driving to California in a stolen convertible after the cessation of civilization?”

 

Christen knits her brows together, giving Tobin a quizzical look. “Uh, come again?”

 

“What are your _hobbies_ , Annemarie?” Tobin says, rolling her eyes.

 

“Hmmm,” Christen hums, tapping her chin with her index finger. “Scrapbooking, book club, and crossword puzzles. What about you?”

 

Without missing a beat, Tobin replies, “Sims, Dungeons and Dragons, and anime boxsets.” Christen throws her head back cackling, her upper body shaking with laughter. The sound of Christen’s laughing rivals that of Tobin’s favorite songs. She would say anything to keep Christen laughing, even tell the cheesiest jokes with the worst puns. Tobin laughs with Christen until they’re both out of breath, wiping tears from their eyes and regaining their composure.

 

“Starbucks order?” Tobin asks, wanting to continue the game.

 

Christen side-eyes Tobin. “Iced vanilla latte,” she mutters, then purses her lips in a pout.

 

“That’s really basic,” Tobin teases, thoroughly enjoying Christen’s pouting expression.

 

“I knew you were gonna say something smart. What’s your go-to order?” Christen says, rolling her eyes.

 

“Venti chai with three shots of espresso to bring me out of my post-drunken regretful hook-up blues.” Tobin grins. “The Dirtiest Chai.”

 

Christen nods. “I _do_ enjoy a good chai latte, on slightly different occasions than you.” They exchange a brief look and chuckle, Christen shaking her head as she watches the road. Tobin looks out the passenger window. The scenery hasn’t changed at all, an endless landscape of parched grass beyond the highway. They approach an exit information sign, reading that RENO is 5 MILES from their current location.

 

_Still got a long fuckin’ way to go._

 

“Uhhhh, most visited website?” Tobin asks.

 

“Pornhub,” Christen replies casually, without hesitation.

 

Tobin nods, stifling her urge to laugh. “Cool Math Games, all the way.”

 

The two lock eyes again, and they erupt into more laughter. Tobin hunches over and clutches her stomach, the muscles sore from laughing so hard. Christen leans into the steering wheel and rests her forehead against it, eyes tightly shut, giggles shaking her body. Tobin sits up straight and sighs, a smile still plastered on her face. Her cheeks hurt from smiling so much, but she doesn’t mind. She hasn’t had this much fun with a girl in a very long time, end-of-times scenario aside.

 

Tobin looks up at the road. Her smile instantly falls.

 

_I knew it._

 

“CHRISTEN!”

 

Still recovering from her laughing fit, Christen looks confusedly from Tobin to the road.

 

“FUCK!”

 

Christen slams her foot on the brake and jerks the wheel to the left, sending the car skidding sideways across the pavement. Tobin is thrust forward, the seat belt locking and painfully digging into her chest and neck. She grips the seat and braces her body for impact.

 

Christen releases her foot from the brake and steers the car into the grass strip, slowing the car significantly.

 

Christen and Tobin hold their breath, eyes never leaving what lies ahead.

 

After swerving several feet on the uneven earth, the car comes to a stop. Tobin and Christen crash back into their seats, their heads bouncing off the headrests. The seat belt cuts into Tobin’s neck, leaving an irritated red welt. The two sit still, breathing heavily. Tobin glances at her hands, still grasping the seat. She wills her fingers to release their grip and brings her hands to her lap, resting cupped, palms up. Tobin feels her body start to relax, though her mind races with incoherent thoughts and images.

 

Christen pushes the gear into park and leans back into her seat, hands resting on her thighs. She turns to Tobin, who looks to her, their eyes meeting. Christen shakes her head slowly, eyes big and brows raised.

 

“You have _got_ to be kidding me.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, questions, concerns, criticism, I am up for it all.  
> This chapter concerned me a bit 'cause it's not a lot of scenery/setting, but, they're driving. On an interstate. It's just road and grass, really. The focus was the dialogue anyway, right? Haha I'm an amateur writer with anxiety who second guesses everything. :')  
> Seriously, let me know what y'all think. School starts in... 17 days (i'm crying) so I'll try to have the next chapter up before all hell breaks loose.


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